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I. II  IRARY 

THE 

University  of  California. 

Mrs.  SARAH  P.  WALSWORTH. 

Received  October,  1894. 
^Accessions  NoS^j '  Qt-r'l~      Class  No. 


BJREAKFAST  IN  BED; 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN  THE  SHEETS. 

§.  Strits  of  frtbigtstible  giscoarses, 

BY  GEORGE  AUGUSTUS  SALA, 

AUTHOR   OF   "TWICE   ROUND  THE  CLOCK,"  "WILLIAM    HOGARTH,"   "THE  SEVEN. 

SONS   OP   MAMMON,"    "THE   STRANGE  ADVENTURES   OF   CAPTAIN 

DANGEROUS,"   ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

JOHN     BEADBUEN, 

(SUCCESSOR    TO    M.    DOOLADY,) 

49  WALKER  STREET. 

1863. 


syofi-- 


7#44i*£ 


TO 

HY     KIND    DOCTOR 

H.  J.  J. 

WHO    SET    ME    ON    MY    LEGS 

AND 
WOULD   TAKE    NO    FEE, 

3  33riHcate  tjjus  33ook, 

WRITTEN  IN  SICKNESS  BUT  REVISED  IN   HEALTH. 


Guilford  Street,  Russell  Squars, 
September,  IS63. 


CONTENTS 


ON   A   REMARKABLE   DRAMATIC   PERFORMANCE 
ON   A   LITTLE   BOY   GOING  TO    SCHOOL 


PAGE 

33 

50 


ON   MR.  MAVOR'S    SPELLING-BOOK 
ON   THE   PREVAILING  MADNESS 

ON   THINGS   GOING,    GOING GONE  !  .  .  .  .       8 T 

ON    BEING   BURNT   ALIVE 104 

ON   THE    CONDITION    OF   MY   POOR   FEET       .  .  .    130 

ON    A   REMARKABLE   DOG 154 

ON    WHAT   PEOPLE    SHOULD   HAVE   FOR   BREAKFAST        .    184 
ON    HAVING    SEEN  A  GHOST  AT  HOXTON,  AND   THE  VERY 

DEUCE    HIMSELF    IN   PARIS  ....    204 

ON   THE    DISCOVERY    IN    ONE'S    WAISTCOAT-POCKET    OF 

SOME    BONES    OF   UNUSUAL    CHARACTER  .  '  .    229 

ON   A  YOUNG   LADY   IN   A   BALCONY  .  .  .    254 


BREAKFAST  IN  BED; 

OR, 

PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN  THE  SHEETS. 


ON  A  EEMAEKABLE  DEAMATIC   PEE- 
FOEMANCE.   f 

Do  you  know  Hircius  and  Spungius,  servants 
to  Dorothea,  in  that  curious  old  play  by  Mass- 
inger,  the  Virgin  Martyr  f  I  have  always  looked 
upon  these  two  fellows  as  the  perfection  of 
scoundrelism.  To  steal  pence  off  the  tray  of  a 
blind  man's  dog  is  ordinarily  esteemed  the  acme 
of  baseness ;  but  Hircius  and  Spungius  go  far 
beyond  this.  They  take  the  saintly  Yirgin's 
wages,  but  they  are  bond-servants  to  Venus— 
La  Venere  d£  ruffianly  and  to  Bacchus  (Bacchus 
who  is  head  warden  of  Vintners'  Hall,  ale  Conner, 
mayor  of  all  victualling  houses ;  lanceprezade  to 
red  noses  and  invincible  Adalantado  over  the 
armada  of  deep-scarleted,  rubified,  and  carbun- 
cled  faces).     How  they  drink  and  gorge,  and 


8 


OR, 


swear  and  lie,  and  bear  false  witness !  When 
Dorothea  sends  them  out  with  meat  and  medi- 
cines to  comfort  her  almswomen,  Hircius  and 
Spungius  convey  the  cates  to  a  receiver  of  stolen 
goods,  and  spend  the  proceeds  in  foul  riot. 
"For  blood  of  grapes  they  sell  the  widow's 
food,"  and  "  snatch  the  meat  out  of  the  prison- 
er's mouth  "  to  fatten  the  naughty.  With  vile 
hypocrisy  they  simulate  devotion  ;  but  when  the 
meek  Angelo,  who  is  always  walking  about  with 
upturned  eyes  and  a  lighted  taper,  has  gone  on  his 
way,  Hircius  and  Spungius  thrust  their  tongues 
into  their  cheeks,  and  reel  into  the  nearest  tav- 
ern, blaspheming.  Finally,  when  Dorothea, 
their  mistress,  their  benefactress,  their  Saint,  is 
to  be  scourged,  outraged,  tortured,  who  but  Hir- 
cius and  Spungius  are  there  to  help  the  hang- 
man ?  Faugh !  There  is  but  one  merry  passage 
in  this  mournful  tragedy,  and  that  is  where  the 
twin  villains  are  dragged  away  by  the  heels  to 
the  gallows. 

Every  man  who  feels  strongly,  and  works 
hard,  and  has  made  a  name,  and  hates  Rogues, 
is  pestered  with  a  Hircius  and  a  Spungius.  They 
begin  by  fawning  upon  and  slavering  him ;  and 
when  they  discover  that  he  will  have  none  of 
their  lip-service,  they  become  his  enemies.  With 
one  more  ally,  they  would  be  counterparts  of  the 
three    Jews  who  put  their  three-hatted  heads 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN  THE   SHEETS.  9 

together  to  "devise  deyices  against  Jeremiah, 
and  make  his  life  a  torment  to  him."  Ever 
since  I  laid  down  pencil  to  take  up  pen,  I  have 
had  my  Hircins  and  my  Spungius  for  ever  carp- 
ing, sneering,  maligning,  reviling.  Hircius 
libels  me  in  the  "  Cad's  Chronicle"  because  I  have 
declined  to  lend  him  three-and-sixpence ;  Spun- 
gius, who  is  reviewer-in-ordinary  to  the  "  Gutter- 
blood  Gazette,"  essays  to  filch  from  me  my  good 
name  because  I  would  not  insert  his  "New  Scan- 
dal about  Queen  Elizabeth "  in  "  Temple  Ear." 
Yet  I*,  honestly  confess  that  the  enmity  of  Hir- 
cius and  Spungius  does  me  good.  It  is  better, 
O  sage,  to  wriggle  on  a  cushion  stuffed  full  of 
the  thorns  of  abuse  than  to  rest  the  head  on  the 
hop-pillow  of  flattery.  A  mongrel  cur  barking 
at  your  heels  is  not  so  agreeable,  but  he  is  more 
useful  than  a  cringing  Bos  well.  Then,  again,  is 
there  not  a  pleasure  in  taking  one's  traducers  by 
the  ear,  and  cudgelling  their  bewrayed  hides 
with  sounding  thwacks  ?  To  hear  Hircius  howl, 
to  listen  to  Spungius  as  he  squeals — this  is  sack 
and  sugar  to  one  who  is  content  to  abide  by  the 
wholesome  doctrine  of  give  and  take,  and  who, 
in  return  for  a  craven  blow,  can  deliver  the 
"  auctioneer  "  well  over  the  face  and  eyes. 

"  Aha !"  I  hear  Hircius  and  Spungius  cry 
when  they  open  this  sheet,  and  see  "  Breakfast 
in  Bed"  at  the  head  of  the  page.     "JSTow  we 


10 


have  him  on  the  hip.  "Now  we  will  gird  at  him, 
and  snarl,  and  glose,  and  '  make  his  life  a  tor- 
ment to  him.' "  Yes,  H.  and  S.,  so  shall  you  do 
till  you  swell  and  burst  with  venom,  if  you  like 
the  sport.  "  Oho  !"  Hircius  and  Spungius  con- 
tinue, "  Breakfast  in  Bed,  forsooth !  Here  is 
another  sample  of  literary  vanity.  His  lordship 
breakfasts  in  bed,  does  he,  and  not  at  the  penny 
coffee-shop  ?  What  does  he  condescend  to  take 
at  his  breakfast  ?  Chocolate  frothed  in  a  silver 
mill  ?  devilled  kidneys,  muffins,  flowery  pekoe, 
truffled  turkey,  or  Strasburg  pie  ?  Does  he  read 
the  'Morning  Post?'"  (Yes,  he  does;  and  a 
capital  paper  it  is,  with  columns  inexorably 
closed  against  Hircian  and  Spungian  contribu- 
tions.) "Does  he  subsequently  rise,  don  a  bro- 
caded dressing-gown,  and,  with  a  golden  pen,  on 
violet-tinted  paper,  set  down  the  thoughts  that 
have  flitted  through  his  mind  at  breakfast-time  ? 
Or,  does  his  Ineffability  (and  be  hanged  to  his 
impudence !)  have  a  rosewood  writing-desk  inlaid 
with  ivory  (Mechi  and  Bazin,  makers)  brought 
to  his  bedside,  and  deposited  on  his  pink  silk 
quilted  counterpane,  while  a  trembling  slave 
holds  the  standish  ?  Or,  perhaps,  we  shall  be 
favored  with  a  description  of-  the  bedchamber  on 
the  model — he  is  an  inveterate  plagiarist — of 
Xavier  de  Maistre's  Voyage  autour  de  ma  Cham- 
bre.    JSTow  for  a  broker's  inventory  of  the  furni- 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN"  THE   SHEETS.  11 

ture :  chairs,  washhand-stand,  tiger-skin  rug,  and 
adjoining  bath-room.  Oh,  be  joyful;  let  us  say 
grace,  my  brother,  for  anon  we  shall  be  full  of 
meat.  The  old,  old  Galimatias  is  coming.  The 
old  conceit,  ignorance,  fragments  of  slangy 
French,  scraps  of  bad  Latin,  wiredrawn  descrip- 
tions, interminable  digressions,  and  affected  ver- 
biage. And  this  wretched  imitation  of  the 
immortal  <  Koundabout  Papers '  he  calls  { Break- 
fast in  Bed.'  Breakfast  in  bed,  quotha  !  Why 
not  Breakfast  on  a  doorstep,  Breakfast  in  the 
workhouse,  Breakfast  in  gaol  ?" 

Well,  all  may  be  on  the  cards ;  for  the  life  of 
mortal  man  is  full  of  strange  vicissitudes.  Mean- 
while I  am  content  to  Breakfast  in  Bed.  Do 
You,  my  reader,  want  a  reason  for  a  decidedly 
indolent  and  perhaps  unhealthy  habit?  You 
should  have  a  hundred,  were  you  so  minded.  I 
breakfast  in  bed  because  I  like  it ;  because  I  am 
much  given  to  sitting  up  all  night,  with  cats, 
and  owls,  and  friends,  and  books,  and  things ; 
because  I  am  generally  very  tired  when  I  go  to 
bed,  and  my  poor  feet  require  rest  as  well  as  my 
poor  head  ;  because  a  cup  of  tea  taken  between 
the  sheets  tastes  more  sweetly  to  me  than  the 
family  souchong  on  the  ground-floor ;  because  I 
am  much  given  to  quarrelling  with  my  bread- 
and-butter  at  breakfast-time — and,  alone,  in  bed 
there  are  but  two  parties  to  the  quarrel  instead 


B 


12 


of  three  or  four;  because  there  is  a  bell  close  to 
my  hand,  which  I  can  pull  viciously  when  I 
choose ;  because  one  can  get  through  the  perusal 
of  six  daily  papers  much  better  in  bed  than  in 
an  arm-chair ;  and  finally,  because  when  in  bed 
in  the  fresh  morning,  and  wide  awake,  not  in 
the  incoherence  of  drowsiness,  one  can  think, 
plot,  devise,  arrange,  decide  upon  the  moment- 
ous Yea,  the  irrevocable  No ;  bid  farewell  to  the 
evil,  welcome  the  good  and  rise  a  new  man. 

[Never  mind  what  my  sleeping  apartment  is 
like.  Damask-hung  four-poster,  ceiled  with 
plate-glass ;  feather-bed  and  down  pillow,  or 
iron  pallet,  with  straw  paillasse  and  hard- 
stuffed  bolster — what  does  it  matter  ?  I  ask  not 
Hircius  and  Spongius  to  what  twopenny-rope 
their  hammocks  are  hung  pending  the  final  sus. 
per  coll.  How  many  pairs  of  boots  are  there  in 
the  dressing-room  ?  Do  I  urticate  my  back  hair 
with  two  brushes  (ivory-backed)  %  Have  I  any 
Ess.  Bouquet,  Kondeletia,  or  Toilet  Yinegar  on 
the  dressing-table  %  All  these  are  things  of  little 
moment.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the  windows  are 
open  from  the  top,  that  there  is  no  looking-glass 
in  the  room — for  this  reason,  that  most  men 
have  an  invincible  propensity  for  looking  at  their 
tongue  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  and  when 
you  look  at  your  tongue  you  can't  help  looking 
at  your  face ;  and  then  comes  the  cold  shudder 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  13 

when  yon  discover  that  yon  are  a  night  older, 
and  that  gray  hair  nnmber  nineteen  has  just  put 
in  an  appearance.  Stay,  there  is  one  other  cir- 
cumstance which  I  may  mention  in  connection 
with  my  domestic  arrangements.  On  the  wall 
opposite  my  bed  hangs,  neatly  framed,  an  old 
Dutch  Engraving  of  the  martyrdom  of  some  five 
hundred  saints,  who  suffered  in  the  persecutions 
of  the  Roman  Emperors  from  Yalerian  to  Max- 
entius.  There  they  are,  being  fried,  grilled, 
boiled,  roasted,  barbecued,  flayed  alive,  burnt, 
steamed,  whipped,  pinched,  hanged,  decapitated, 
baked,  drowned,  minced,  scolloped,  hewn  in 
pieces,  sawn  asunder,  impaled,  broken  on  the 
wheel,  and  flung  to  wild  beasts.  A  lively  com- 
position, with  a  long  epigraph  in  Dutch,  begin- 
ning "  Het  Martelen  der  Uoedgetuigen  de  onder 
der  Vervolging  der  Roomse  Keisers  voer  de 
■  Waarheid  des  Evangeliums"  and  so  forth !  I 
like  to  look  at  this  sanguinolent  old  print,  first, 
in  complacency  for  being  in  bed,  in  Bloomsbury, 
in  the  Queen's  peace,  with  the  breakfast  things 
coming  jangling  upstairs  on  the  tray — Ha ! ' 
another  breakage  at  that  unlucky  .second-pair 
landing;  next,  in  gratitude  remembering  that 
the  five  hundred  persons  here  represented  were 
cruelly  done  to  death  because  they  presumed  to 
differ  in  matters  of  conscience  from  the  "  Roomse 
Keisers ;"  and,  thank  God !  no  King  or  Kaiser 


14  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  ;    OK, 

nowadays  dare  so  much  as  pinch  an  English- 
man's little  finger  for  what  he  writes  or  speaks 
according  to  his  conscience. 

Cannot  one  get  up  a  little  Philosophy  between 
the  Sheets  this  fine  rainy  morning  ?  Here  are 
the  Newspapers.  Surely  some  texts  must  turn 
up  in  those  extensive,  close-printed,  loose-medi- 
tated columns.  In  the  advertisements  always 
there  is  a  mine  of  philosophy  ;  but  they  always 
detain  the  "  Times  "  Supplement  down-stairs — I 
presume  with  a  hankering  after  the  Births,  Mar- 
riages, and  Deaths,  the  abandoned  Initials  who 
have  run  away  from  home,  and  the  Bank  an- 
nouncements of  unclaimed  stock.  There  is  none 
standing  in  my  name,  I  am  sure.  Here  are  the 
telegrams — Eeuter's  hottest  ?  The  Tuileries  com- 
pliment Turin.  Do  they?  The  Keichsrath  ?  No; 
it's  the  Landtag.  Stay,  it's  the  council  of  the 
nobility  of  the  government  of  TambofF,  who 
have  been  memorializing  somebody  about  some- 
thing. Indeed !  Montenegro.  Where  is  Mon- 
tenegro ?  There  is  no  use  in  consulting  the  map  ; 
for  has  not  a  great  authority  informed  us  that  all 
maps  professing  to  give  a  projection  of  any  places 
out  of  the  British  Dominions  are  simply  impos- 
tures? The  Turks  have  taken  Spuz,  and  are 
marching  on  Cettigne.  Much  good  may  it  do 
them !  Another  dreadful  murder.  There  is 
always  another  dreadful  murder.      Infanticide. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS  15 

Ditto.  Swindling  extraordinary;  more  garotte 
robberies ;  death  through  crinoline ;  Lord  John 
Maimers  on  agricultural  prizes ;  Mr.  Henley  on 
laborers'  cottages;  Mr.  Disraeli  on  himself; 
"  consols  opened  heavily  " — did  they  %  state  of 
trade ;  suicide  ;  destitution  ;  another  awful  fire. 
Well,  I  do  not  see  that  the  world  has  altered 
its  ordinary  jog-trot  since  yesterday, — since 
2,190,000  yesterdays,  more  or  less.  "We  are  still 
laboring,  groaning,  crashing  in  M.  Yictor  Hugo's 
dark  tunnel ;  and  I  for  one  am  choked  with  the 
engine's  ever-belching  smoke,  and  deafened  by 
the  rattle  and  roar  ;  and  they  don't  give  us  lights 
in  the  second-class  carriages ;  and  thrusting  my 
head  out  of  the  window,  at  the  risk  of  having  it 
(the  head)  knocked  off,  I  can  see  no  glimmer  of 
the  luminous  point  which  is  so  visible  to  M. 
Hugo's  eagle  eye — the  happy  valley;  the  pro- 
mised land ;  the  bright  terminus — Canaan. 

Here  are  leading  articles  galore.  "It  was 
once  wittily  remarked  by  Eochefoucault "  — 
Connu,  "  The  Fabian  policy  of  General  McClel- 
lan?» — I  have  seen  that  before.  "  Those  whom 
the  gods  are  resolved  to  destroy  they  first  deprive 
of  reason  ;  and  the  conduct  of  the  Indian  govern- 
ment with  reference  to  the  Gwalior  bungalows, 
the  farming  of  mofnssils  to  Kansamahs,  and  the 
breach  of  Sudder  Adawlut  towards  the  ryots  of 
the  Himalayan  compounds" — Very  clever  and  ex- 


16  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;   OE, 

haustive,  I  have  no  doubt ;  but  my  acquaintance 
with  Hindostan  stops  at  curried  lobster,  and  In- 
dian politics  are  to  me  among  the  cosas  d& 
JE&pana. 

I  just  glance  at  the  theatrical  advertisements 
above  the  leaders.  My  eye  lights  on  the  un- 
varying staple  of  the  bill  of  fare  at  the  Haymar- 
ket.  Our  American  Cousin,  of  course.  Tre- 
mendous and  continued  success  of  Mr.  Sothern 
as  Lord  Dundreary.  Why,  let  me  collect  my 
thoughts.  "Where  was  I  last  night  ?  whom  did  I 
meet  ?  with  whom  did  I  quarrel  ?  which  are  sy- 
nonymous terms.  Why,  I  went  to  the  Theatre 
Royal  Haymarket,  and  paid  for  my  admission — 
at  least,  somebody  else  paid  for  me,  the  free  list 
being  suspended,  and  orders  hopelessly  unattain- 
able; and  I  saw  Mr.  Sothern  in  Lord  Dun- 
dreary, and  I  have  seen  him  twice  within  as 
many  weeks. 

I  don't  often  go  to  the  play.  It  is  too  good 
for  the  likes  of  me.  I  envy  the  people  who  seem 
to  enjoy  the  performance,  which  wearies  and  stu- 
pifies  me.  I  am  restless  and  uneasy ;  long  for 
the  green  curtain  to  descend,  and  for  the  festoons 
of  brown  holland  to  envelope  the  boxes.  I  never 
sat  out  a  theatrical  performance  without  wishing, 
not  that  the  roof  might  fall  in,  and  the  chande- 
lier tumble  into  the  pit — for  those  accidents 
would  hurt   my  brethren  below — but  that  the 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN"  THE   SHEETS.  17 

stage-manager  would  step  forward  and  inform 
the  audience  that  the  French  had  landed,  or  that 
a  blue  monkey  was  standing  on  his  head  on  the 
summit  of  Bow-church  steeple,  or  that  Captain 
Fowke's  brick  barn  at  South  Kensington  had 
caught  fire :  anything  sensational,  in  fact,  to  put 
a  stop  to  the  mummery  on  the  stage  and  clear 
the  house.  I  had  not,  before  I  went  to  see  Lord 
Dundreary  ^  been  inside  the  Haymarket  theatre 
for  years.  I  remember  the  last  time  well ;  the 
pit  black  with  paying  play-goers'  heads,  the 
boxes  radiant  with  famous  men  and  fair  women, 
and  one  old  man  on  the  stage,  white-bearded, 
straw-bedecked,  babbling  to  his  Fool  about  his 
daughter's  ingratitude.  Vidi  tantmn.  I  have 
seen  William  Charles  Macready  in  King  Lear  / 
and  after  that  wondrous  impersonation,  the  rant 
and  buffoonery  of  the  modern  stage  disgust  a 
dull  man  somewhat.  Exult  not,  my  Hircius  and 
Spungius  ;  I  am  not  about  to  descant  on  the 
glorious  old  days  of  the  drama — on  Young  and 
Charles  Kemble,  whom  I  have  seen — on  the 
Eean,  whom  I  never  saw — on  "Jack  Bannister, 
sir,"  who  died  years  before  I  was  born. 

And  let  me  tell  Mr.  John  Baldwin  Buckstone, 
whom  I  have  known,  admired,  and  respected  for 
very  many  years — who  has  been,  I  am  proud  to 
say,  from  the  first,  a  subscriber  to  this  Magazine, 
that  he  is  very  much  mistaken  if  he  thinks  I  am 


18  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ]   OR, 

about  to  puff  either  Mr.  Sothern  or  himself.  No, 
J.  B.  B.,  perpend.  You  may  cut  off  with  ruthless 
excision  your  subscription  to  T.  B.,  but  you  shall 
listen  to  the  impartial  critic  now  Breakfasting  in 
Bed.     You  may  strike,  but  you  shall  hear. 

Some  kind,  despotic  friends  I  am  happy  to 
possess  were  good  enough,  lately,  to  take  me  to 
the  Exhibition  (where  I  had  never  been,  of  my 
own  motion,  since  the  opening  day)  and  to  feed 
me  on  macaroni  dressed  in  the  Neapolitan  fash- 
ion, with  tomatoes,  and  to  give  me  some  grouse, 
and  some  selzer  and  sillery,  and  other  nice  things, 
which  cast  a  sunshine  on  the  shady  walks  of  life, 
and  to  tell  me  that  three  front  seats  had  been 
secured  a  week  before  at  the  Haymarket,  and 
tnat  I  was  to  go,  en  sandwich,  and  see  Lord 
Dundreary.  I  protested;  but  in  vain.  I  pleaded 
my  engagements,  the  printer's  devil  of  T.  B.,  my 
incapacity  to  appreciate  the  drama,  my  aching 
head,  and  those  perennial  poor  feet.  All  remon- 
strances I  found  unavailing;  and  ten  minutes 
before  the  termination  of  a  very  stupid  farce,  I 
found  myself  in  the  first  agonies  of  that  cramp 
which  is  the  lot  of  all  who  occupy  front  rows  at 
an  English  theatre. 

It  is  not,  I  conceive,  necessary  tljat  I  should 
describe  the  plot  and  incidents  of  the  piece,  en- 
titled Our  American  Cousin,  and  which  is  called 
a  Comedy.    This  much,  however,  I  may  say,  that 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN"  THE   SHEETS.  19 

it  is,  as  regards  construction,  dialogue  and  in- 
trigue, about  as  much  a  comedy  as  I  am  a  Dutch- 
man. As  comedies  go,  however,  I  suppose  that 
it  is  received  as  something  quite  in  the  style  of 
Sheridan  or  Mrs.  Inchbald.  There  is  plenty  of 
"  broad  fun  "  in  it,  which  may  be  said  to  be  ana- 
logous with  "  Broad  church,"  i.  e.,  no  fun  at  all 
Is  it  funny  for  the  "  tag  "  to  the  first  act  to  de- 
pend on  a  Yankee  pulling  the  string  of  a  shower- 
bath,  and  bellowing  beneath  the  cascade  ;  or  for 
the  wind-up  of  the  second  to  turn  on  the  popping 
of  a  champagne-cork  and  the  casting  of  an  effer- 
vescing jet  over  Lord  Dundreary?  These  fun- 
niments  remind  one  of  the  old  "  real  water " 
effects  of  Sadler's  Wells.  The  fun  of  Mr.  Buck- 
stone  appearing  in  the  costume  of  the  Ancient 
Order  of  Foresters,  dilating  on  the  pleasant  odor 
of  the  back  hair  of  the  young  lady  he  is  hugging, 
and  of  his  mixing  sherry-cobblers  and  brandy- 
cocktails  in  an  English  drawing-room,  I  cannot 
discover.  But  all  this  must  be  funny,  you  see, 
because  the  public  roar  with  laughter  at  every 
feat  of  mountebank  horse-play ;  and  whatever  is, 
you  know,  is  right. 

Although  Mr.  Buckstone's  Asa  Trenchard 
does  not  in  the  slightest  degree  resemble  either  a 
Northern  or  a  Southern  American,  it  is  unde- 
niably a  very  droll  performance.  But  then  Mr. 
Buckstone  would  be  sure  to  make  you  laugh 


20  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  ;   OE, 

were  he  playing  the  part,  say  of  a  Mute,  or  of 
Hamlet  Prince  of  Denmark,  or  of  Grim  Death 
himself.  He  makes  the  most  of  an  unnatural 
and  ungrateful  role,  manifestly  written  down  by 
a  bad  dramatist  to  suit  the  morbid  vanity  of  a 
Bowery  audience — or  wherever  else  in  Bragga- 
docioclom  the  thing  was  primarily  played.  In- 
deed, the  whole  "  comedy  "  bears  evident  signs 
of  being  written  to  order,  and  with  the  view  of 
"  cracking  up  "  the  most  conceited  people  in  the 
world.  The  quasi- American  from  Vermont  is 
made  chivalrous,  generous,  self-sacrificing,  even 
to  lighting  his  cigar  with  the  document  which 
assures  him  the  possession  of  large  property ; 
while,  of  the  two  most  salient  English  gentlemen 
represented,  one  is  a  "  bloated  aristocrat "  of  a 
Baronet,  hopelessly  in  debt,  the  other  a  vapid, 
brainless  nobleman.  All  the  types  of  English 
character,  save  Florence  and  Mary  (who  is  to 
have  the  signal  honor  of  marrying  the  Yankee), 
are  absurd  and  repulsive.  The  butler  is  a  mon- 
Btrosity  of  malaspirated  H's ;  the  dairyman  who 
brings  the  letters  is  a  cringing  fawner  ;  the  law- 
yer (the  villain  of  the  piece)  is  a  thief,  and  his 
clerk  a  drunkard.  Captain  De  Boots  is  a  fool 
and  nothing  more ;  and  Mrs.  Mountchessington 
has  the  manners  of  a  charwoman,  and  sells  her 
daughters  to  the  highest  bidders.  This,  I  sup- 
pose, is  English  Society.    Is  it?    I  am  sure  I 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN  THE   SHEETS.  21 

don't  know.  I  don't  go  into  society  myself;— 
and,  my  dear,  I  have  rung  twice  for  another 
lump  of  sugar ;  and  to-morrow  being  Sunday  we 
will  go  to  the  Foundling  Chapel,  and  be  thank- 
ful for  all  things. 

I  look  upon  the  Lord  Dundreary  of  Mr. 
Sothern  as  a  most  finished,  ingenious,  and  amaz- 
ingly well-sustained  delineation  of  a  character 
he  has  undeniably  originated : — that  of  a  well- 
dressed  but  grotesque  imbecile.  It  is  easy  to  see 
directly  he  comes  on  the  stage  the  man  is  a 
thorough  actor.  Like  Mr.  Fechter,  he  is  never 
idle;  his  by-play  is  always  exquisite,  never 
obtrusive.  Many  comedians,  when  they  have 
done  mouthing  what  is  set  down  for  them,  sub- 
side at  once  into  gawky  inertia;  and  because 
they  are  no  longer  near  the  footlights,  think  that 
they  have  a  right  to  twiddle  their  thumbs,  to 
yawn,  to  stand  on  one  leg,  to  gossip  with  their 
compeers,  or  to  gaze  vacantly  at  the  wings. 
They  are  just  like  the  Marionettes  you  see  at 
Genoa :  one  moment  full  of  spasmodic  action, 
and  the  next  flaccid  and  powerless,  with  their 
heads  on  one  side,  their  backbones  apparently 
drawn  out,  and  propped  against  the  wing.  "With 
Mr.  Sothern  it  is  entirely  different.  You  never 
see  too  much  of  him,  when  in  comparative 
repose ;  but  you  may  be  always  sure  that  he  is 
doing  the  right  thing  in  the  right  place.    He 


22  BEEAKFAST  IN  BED  ;   0E, 

dresses  in  wonderfully  good  taste.  His  costumes 
(with  one  exception,  which  I  shall  notice  pre- 
sently) are  true  to  the  character  which,  other- 
wise, he  so  often  falsifies.  His  face  is  mar- 
vellously "•  made-up;"  his  management  of  an 
eye-glass  as  dexterous  as  Perea  ISTena's  manage- 
ment of  a  fan.  He  cannot  unfold  a  pocket- 
handkerchief,  open  a  letter,  put  on  a  pair  of 
gloves,  cross  his  legs,  or  pull  his  moustaches, 
without  showing  you  that  he  has  made  those 
seemingly  petty  details  the  matter  of  careful  and 
artistic  study.  Finally,  to  sum  up  his  good  quali- 
ties, he  appears  to  be  an  admirable  mimic,  and 
imitates  very  successfully  the  drawl,  the  lisp,  and 
the  stutter,  which  he  has  turned  to  such  famous 
account.  He  is  the  more  entitled  to  praise  for 
his  powers  of  mimicry,  as  the  tones  of  his  natural 
voice,  when  heard  from  time  to  time,  have  a 
harsh  and  unpleasant  twang,  suggesting  to  those 
who  hear  him  that  Asa  Trenchard  in  his  hands, 
or  rather  in  his  mouth,  would  be  much  more  a 
lifelike  performance  than  is  the  Yankee  of  Mr. 
Buckstone. 

And  the  per  contra.  Is  there  anything  to  be 
said  on  the  other  side  ?  Can  anything,  without 
malice  or  hypercriticism,  be  set  down  in  depre- 
ciation of  an  actor  who  has  taken  the  town  by 
storm,  who  for  months  has  crammed  the  Hay- 
market  to  the  very  ceiling,  whose  photograph  is 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN  THE  SHEETS.  23 

in  every  shop-window,  whose  name  the  theme  of 
every  drawing-room  conversation,  who  has  won 
colossal  notoriety  for  himself,  and  has  made  a 
handsome  fortune— for  his  manager?  I  think 
that  there  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  on  the  other 
side,  and  I  mean  to  say  it  plainly,  but  tempe- 
rately. First,  however,  let  me  express  my 
opinion  that  the  responsibility  of  the  blemishes 
to  which  I  am  about  to  call  attention  lies  at  the 
door,  not  of  Mr.  Sothern,  not  even  at  that  of  the 
playwright,  who  originally  gave  only  the  sketchy 
skeleton  of  a  part  which  Mr.  Sothern  has  clothed 
in  such  a  vascular  manner,  but  at  the  door  of  his 
audience.  The  gallery  roar  at  him  because  he  is 
full  of  laughable  absurdities.  The  pit  are  de- 
lighted with  him,  because  the  pittites  are  mostly 
simple-minded  country-folks,  who  know  no  more 
of  the  habits  and  manners  of  a  live  lord  than 
they  do  of  the  private  life  of  a  hippopotamus. 
The  stuck-up  middle-classes  in  the  boxes  praise 
his  impersonation  as  "  so  delightfully  true  to 
nature,"  because  they  themselves  have  rarely  the 
opportunity  of  meeting  with  the  aristocracy ;  and 
because  Mr.  Sothern's  Dundreary'^  the  caricature 
of  a  caricature,  the  exaggeration  of  the  sham  copy 
they  are  themselves  acquainted  with — the  Gov- 
ernment clerks  and  sucking  bankers  and  stock- 
brokers' sons,  who  dress  in  an  outre,  manner, 
know  the  outside  of  all  the  clubs,  walk  arm 


24  BKEAKFAST   EN"  BED  ;   OR, 

linked  four  abreast  in  Eotten  Kow,  and  fancy 
themselves  "  swells."  Mr.  John  Leech,  even, 
who  ought  to  know  his  swell  by  heart,  has  blun- 
dered in  seizing  upon  the  outer  Dundreary  as 
the  type  of  the  inner  exquisite ;  and  the  thou- 
sands who  pin  their  faith  to  the  social  sketches 
in  "  Punch  "  are  content  to  believe  that  if  Mr. 
Leech,  like  Mr.  Lincoln,  "  puts  down  his  foot " 
on  Lord  Dundreary  being  identical  with  the  real 
swells,  with  rny  Lord  Tomnoddy,  and  Lord  Fre- 
derick Yerisopht,  and — swells  of  swells! — the 
Marquis  of  Farintosh  and  the  Honorable  Percy 
Popjoy — Mr.  Leech  must  be  right,  and  no  dog 
must  dare  bark  at  Sir  Oracle.  But  I  pass  from 
assertion  to  proof.  When  so  much  is  said  about 
"  life-like  portraiture,"  and  something  "  delight- 
fully true  to  nature,"  it  behooves  me  to  show  in 
what  manner  Mr.  Sothern  sins  against  verisimi- 
litude in  the  character  he  assumes.  I  am  in- 
clined, first,  to  think  that  Lord  Dundreary's 
appearance  in  brilliantly-dyed  black  hair,  mous- 
tache, and  whiskers  is,  artistically  considered,  a 
mistake.  Nine-tenths  of  our  English  swells  are 
tawny.  Old  swells  use  hair-dye  (on  the  employ- 
ment of  which  by  Dundreary  part  of  the  plot 
of  this  precious  piece  turns);  young  swells 
never.  I  will,  however,  pass  this  by,  as  now 
and  then  one  meets  a  phenomenally  sable  swell ; 
only  Mr.  Sothern  "  makes  up  "  so  very  darkly  as 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  25 

to  appear  almost  oriental.  A  much  more  repre- 
hensible solecism  is  his  first  entrance  in  an  elabo- 
rately embroidered  dressing-gown.  Since  when 
has  such  a  careless  style  of  attire  been  tolerated, 
even  in  the  case  of  a  nobleman,  in  the  house  of 
an  English  baronet,  and  in  the  presence  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  are  all  in  walking  dress  ? 
Again,  the  real  "  swell,"  donkey  as  he  frequently 
may  be,  would  never  be  so  positively  rude  and 
unmannerly  to  ladies  as  Mr.  Sothern  is.  He 
might  be  lazy,  lounging  and  limp  ;  but,  as  the 
English  swell  can  generally  ride,  drive,  and 
fence  very  well,  he  is  hardly  ever  awkward.  It 
is  the  perfectly  calm  self-possession  and  the 
languid  politeness  of  the  swell  that  give  him  so 
unmistakeable  a  stamp.  Mr.  Sothern  is  always 
committing  blunders,  tumbling  over  settees, 
knocking  Over  music-stools,  or  frightening  old 
ladies  out  of  their  wits.  He  has  not  been  three 
minutes  on  the  stage,  before  he  turns  his  back 
on  the  lady  with  whom  he  is  conversing.  I  do 
not  object  to  his  speaking  of  Mrs.  Mountches- 
sington,  in  an  under  tone,  as  "a  d — d  stupid 
old  woman,"  for  I  am  afraid  that  the  swells  are 
much  given  to  quiet  profanity ;  but  I  do  object 
to  his  jogging  that  lady  in  the  stomacher  and 
hustling  her  about  the  room : — I  object  simply 
for  this  reason,  that  if  any  Lord  Dundreary 
adopted  such  a  course  of  conduct  in  any  English 

2 


26  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OB, 

drawing-room,  lie  would  infallibly  be  kicked 
down-stairs  by  the  host.  Of  Mr.  Sothern's 
drawl  I  have  already  expressed  my  admiration, 
His  lisp  is  also  very  good,  and  is  not  offensive, 
for  the  more  imbecile  among  the  swells  do  imi- 
tate or  acquire  by  habit  a  lisp.  But  that  part  of 
an  actor's  great  reputation  should  rest  upon  his 
mimicry  of  so  painful,  lamentable,  and  repulsive 
a  physical  imperfection  as  stammering,  strikes 
me  as  being  very  disgusting.  A  lisp  is  a  slight 
matter :  the  stammerer  and  stutterer  must  be 
reckoned  among  the  Almighty's  afflicted  crea- 
tures. If  corporeal  ailments  are  to  be  made  the 
subject  of  "life-like  portraiture"  in  "comedy," 
we  shall  have  one  actor  famous  for  his  wonderful 
delineation  of  the  ringworm,  another  made 
famous  through  his  stage-photography  of  a  hare- 
lip, and  a  third  gain  renown  for  his  curious  copy 
of  club-foot.  In  fact,  Mr.  Sothern  very  nearly 
approaches  a  parody  of  the  last-named  defect,  in 
the  shape  of  a  hop,  or  "  kick  in  his  gallop," 
which  a  young  English  lady  accounts  for  by  say- 
ing that  my  Lord  has  been  advised  to  run,  and 
that  he  is  doing  his  running  by  instalments. 
This  young  lady,  Florence  (very  charmingly 
played  by  Mrs.  Charles  Young),  also  ridicules 
Lord  Dundreary  to  his  face  for  saying  "  wid- 
dle,"  instead  of  "  riddle,"  an  exercise  of  sarcastic 
humor  I  did  not  hitherto  know  to  be  habitual  in 
polite  society. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  27 

Much  of  Mr.  Sothern's  popularity  rests  on  the 
incoherent  nonsense  he  talks,  and  the  idiotic  non 
seqidtvtrs  in  which  he  revels.  The  confusion 
arising  from  his  utter  want  of  the  faculty  of  rea- 
son is  certainly  very  amusing.  For  instance, 
when  he  tries  to  count  his  fingers  and  toes,  and 
discovers  that  he  has  eleven  of  each ;  when  he 
sticks  up  one  thumb  to  represent  his  mother,  and 
another  for  his  brother  Sam's  mother,  until  he 
gets  into  a  haze  between  the  two,  and  wonders 
who  the  d — 1  (he  is  nearly  always  swearing)  his 
mother  can  be,  it  is  impossible  to  avoid  shouting 
with  laughter.  I  wonder,  supposing  my  friend 
Mr.  Nicholas  were  to  send  me  up  a  Born  Idiot 
from  the  admirable  Asylum  at  Earlswood,  and  I 
were  to  try  to  procure  him  an  engagement  at  the 
Haymarket,  whether  the  drivelling  balderdash 
of  the  poor  creature  would  excite  the  risibility 
of  a  highly  cultivated  audience  ?  Many  of  Mr. 
Sothern's  non  sequiturs  are  droll  enough  ;  but 
they  are  not  new.  The  enumeration  of  the  fin- 
gers and  toes  is  as  old  as  the  hills,  and  has  made 
many  generations  of  chaw-bacons  grin  when  per- 
formed by  Mr.  Merryman  in  front  of  a  booth  at 
the  fair.  The  transposition  of  proverbs  in  which 
Lord  Dundreary  delights  is  equally  venerable ; 
and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  famous 
hotch-potch  of  "  the  early  bird  knows  his  own 
father,"  and  "  a  wise  child  picks  up  the  worm" 


28  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  ;   OR, 

(if  that  be  the  precise  formula  of  the  nonsense), 
from  the  mouth  of  an  English  clown,  in  the  cir- 
cus at  Copenhagen,  and  in  the  year  of  grace 
1856.  Indeed,  the  majority  of  the  jokes  smell 
of  the  sawdust,  and  have  been  heard  over  and 
over  again  at  Astley's.  The  more  refined  witti- 
cisms are  drawn  from  other  sources.  The  per- 
petual reference  to  "  some  other  fellah"  is  only  a 
paraphrase  of  the  "any  other  man"  of  the  nigger 
stump-orator  at  the  music-halls;  and  the  joint- 
stool  conversation  between  Dundreary  and 
Georgiana  at  the  Dairy-farm  is  not  very  skil- 
fully copied  from  a  wonderful  bit  of  inane  chit- 
chat in  one  of  Mrs.  German  Reed's  earlier  enter- 
tainments. If  I  remember  correctly,  it  hinged 
upon  an  asinine  young  gentleman's  asking  a  lady 
whether  she  liked  cheese,  or  whether,  if  she  had 
a  brother,  she  thought  that  he  would  like  that 
caseous  delicacy. 

Do  I  blame,  do  I  quarrel  with  Mr.  Sothern  for 
making  himself  the  mouthpiece  of  all  this  bald 
buffoonery  ?  Kot  in  the  least.  I  only  quarrel 
with  the  silly  and  depraved  people  who  persist  in 
crying  up  as  a  "  life-like  portraiture"  and  "  as 
delightfully  true  to  nature"  what  might  just  as 
wTell  be  assumed  to  be  the  likeness  of  Beau  Tibbs 
or  Beau  Brummel,  as  that  of  an  English  aristo- 
crat of  the  nineteenth  century.  I  dare  say  the 
Americans  admired  Lord  Dundreary  hugely*    To 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  29 

the  greater  number  of  those  who  flock  to  see  Mr. 
Sothern  in  England,  he  would  be  quite  as  wel- 
come if  he  wore  a  sky-blue  coat,  a  false  nose, 
and  a  pink  wig.  "We  want  quantity  now-a-days, 
not  quality,  in  our  humor.  The  "  Perfect  Cure" 
has  been  an  immense  success ;  so  has  "  In  the 
Strand,  in  the  Strand  ;£-and  if  anybody  will  tell 
me  the  real  gist  of  those  celebrated  "comic" 
songs,  I  will  give  him  any  number  of  post  obits, 
my  MS.  notes  for  the  history  of  Merry  Andrews, 
and  a  live  guinea-pig. 

I  apprehend  that  Mr.  Sothern  came  to  play 
this  part  in  England  in  perfect  good  faith,  and 
that  he  became  a  hero  without  being  aware  of  it. 
Dundreary  had  had  a  tremendous  run  in  Ame- 
rica;  why  shouldn't  it  go  down  in  England? 
Mr.  Sothern  has  been,  I  believe,  resident  for 
many  years  in  the  United  States  and  in  the  Colo- 
nies. It  is  not  very  probable  that  he  could  have 
enjoyed  many  opportunities  of  studying  the  pe- 
culiarities of  the  class  of  whom  Lord  Dundreary 
is  erroneously  supposed  to  be  the  type.  He 
created  the  part,  or  at  least  filled  it  up  from  a 
mere  vague  outline.  He  saw  how  it  would 
square  with  his  own  particular  notion  of  humor, 
how  he  could  adapt  it  to  his  own  idiosyncrasy. 
He  has  been  triumphantly  successful  in  the  pro- 
duction of  a  "life-like  portraiture,"  not  of  a 
dandy  Lord,  but  of  an  Eccentric.     I  don't  deny 


30  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OK, 

that  there  may  be  a  Dundreary  or  two  wander- 
ing up  and  down  society  ;  but  I  utterly  repudiate 
the  theory  accepted  by  the  public,  and  endorsed 
by  the  powerful  pencil  of  Mr.  Leech,  that  Mr. 
Sothern's  Dundreary  is  the  representative  of  a 
class  in  the  community.  The  Haymarket  actor 
has,  however,  succeeded,  perhaps  unconsciously, 
in  naturalizing  in  England  a  character  who,  for 
many  years,  has  been  highly  popular  on  the 
French  stage.  I  mean  the  traditional  Jocrisse. 
The  late  Mr.  Kenney  gave  a  very  humorous  no- 
tion of  him  in  the  Billy  Lackaday  of  Sweet- 
hearts and  Wives;  but  Lord  Dundreary  is  a 
thorough  Anglicised  Jocrisse.  When  this  droll 
imbecile  is  sent  for  a  quart  of  oil  he  holds  out 
his  cap,  which  contains  a  pint.  When  asked 
how  he  will  carry  the  other  pint,  he  turns  the 
cap  inside  out.  His  master  tells  him  to  count 
the  chickens,  and  he  says  that  he  has  reckoned 
them  all  up  except  one,  which  ran  about  so  that 
he  couldn't  count  it.  He  digs  a  hole  in  the 
ground ;  and  when  asked  how  he  means  to  get 
rid  of  the  earth  thrown  up,  replies,  "  Put  it  in 
that  hole,  of  course."  He  asks  for  some  stale 
bread  instead  of  new,  at  dinner,  and  being  told 
that  there  is  none,  desires  that  some  stale  bread 
may  be  baked.  He  sees  a  fresh  salmon  at  the 
fishmonger's,  and  announces  his  intention  to  save 
up  his  pocket-money  until  he  can  buy  it.     The 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  31 

cat  jumps  on  to  the  bird-cage,  claws  the  canary 
out,  and  eats  it.  Hearing  his  mistress  coming, 
Jocrisse  thrusts  the  cat  into  the  cage,  and  de- 
clares that  the  canary  is  quite  safe,  because  it  is 
Id-dedans,  pointing  to  the  imprisoned  felina. 
There  are  Jocrisses,  under  various  names,  at 
Naples,  at  Palermo,  at  Madrid,  at  Constanti- 
nople, at  Moscow,  as  I  dare  say  there  were  like- 
wise in  old  Home  and  old  Athens.  Who  doesn't 
know  the  old,  old  incongruity  of  the  traveller 
who  exclaimed,  "  They  may  well  call  this  place 
Stoney  Stratford,  for  I  have  been  most  terribly 
bitten  by  fleas  !"  What  is  that  but  a  Dundreary- 
ism  pure  and  simple  ?  The  town  has  chosen  to 
go  mad  after  the  English  Jocrisse  /  and  the  town, 
I  suppose,  is  perfectly  right.  Long  live  Lord 
Dundreary  at  the  Haymarket,  Blondin  on  the 
high  rope,  Leotard  on  the  trapeze,  the  Perfect 
Cure,  The  Strand,  the  Strand !  and  the  Beni- 
zoug-zoug  Arabs !  If  I  say  that  this  vulgar 
farrago  at  the  Haymarket,  libellously  called  a 
comedy,  and  this  clever  droll,  who  has  so  suc- 
cessfully moulded  it  to  his  own  purpose,  made 
me  think  with  shame  and  sorrow  of  the  days 
when  Weench,  Steickland,  Faeeen,  Mathews, 
Yesteis,  Glovee,  Nisbett,  trod  its  boards,  and 
Buckstone  gave  us  Englishmen  to  the  life,  and 
not  galvanized  travesties  of  Yankees, — what  am 
I  but  a  jaundiced  and  splenetic  croaker?    The 


32  BKEAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OK, 

drama  is  dead.  Hurrah  for  "  sensations,"  comio 
or  tragic!  The  theatrical  city  of  Paris  is  not 
free  from  similar  crazes.  All  Paris  crowded  five- 
and-forty  years  ago  to  see  Les  Anglaises  pour 
rire  /  thirty  years  ago  to  see  Passe  Minuit  j 
twenty  years  ago  to  see  Le  The  chez  Madame 
Gibou ;  ten  years  ago  to  see  a  performer  who 
had,  in  his  way,  as  great  a  specialty  as  Mr. 
Sothern.  His  name  was  Joseph  Kelm ;  and  he 
created  a  furore  by  singing  a  comic  song  called 
LeSire  do  Framboisy,  in  which  there  was  a  truly 
Dundrearyish  line,  telling  how  the  Sire  cut  off 
his  wife's  head  d\m  coup  de  son  fusil : — with  a 
musket  shot.  But  it  strikes  me  that  all  the  extra- 
vaganzas I  have  named  ran  their  course  at  little 
trumpery  Boulevard  theatres ;  and  that  the  hu- 
mors of  M.  Joseph  Kelm  were  confined  to  the 
Funambules  or  the  Folies  Nouvelles.  The  Sire 
de  Framboisy  did  not  invade  the  chosen  homes 
of  comedy.  He  did  not  claim  a  triumph  at  the 
Theatre  Francais. 

Yes :  there  certainly  was  either  too  much  cay- 
enne-pepper, or  too  much  Worcestershire  sauce 
with — never  mind  what?  the  kidneys,  the  grilled 
haddock,  the  devilled  fowl, — anything  you  like. 
Breakfast  is  over ;  hot  wTater  arrives  ;  and  Black 
Care  stands  over  against  the  shaving-glass  and 
scowls  at  the  shaver. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  33 


ON  A  LITTLE  BOY  GOING  TO  SCHOOL. 

Shortly  after  eight  o'clock  every  morning  a 
little  boy  comes  into  the  room  where  I  Breakfast 
in  Bed — a  very  little  boy,  not  so  high  as  the 
counterpane  of  the  conch,  and  clad  in  a  little 
suit  of  gray  frieze.  He  passes  to  a  little  corner 
appointed  to  Jiim,  partially  disrobes  himself,  and, 
with  a  very  grave  and  magisterial  air,  washes  his 
little  hands  and  face.  That  he  has  just  partaken 
of  a  cold  bath  is  patent  from  the  fluffy  appear- 
ance of  his  wet  hair,  a  slight  shiver  which  some- 
times pervades  his  frame,  and  the  occasional  trace 
of  a  half-dried  tear  on  his  dumpling  face,  which 
tear,  I  am  led,  not  irrationally,  to  believe,  has  a 
direct  connection  with  sundry  early  morning 
howlings,  sometimes  audible  to  me  from  the  up- 
per regions.  I  will  not  do  servant-maids  the  in- 
justice to  suppose  that  they  wilfully  and  design- 
edly rub  yellow  soap  or  the  hard  corners  of  towels 
into  little  boys'  eyes  ;  but  I  well  remember  what 
tortures  I  used  to  undergo  in  the  tub,  where  I 
was  washed  against  my  will,  and  was  of  the  same 
opinion  still  that  the  making  of  dirtpies  was  pre- 
ferable. "  Laissez-moi  jouer  dans  cette  belle 
2* 


34  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OE, 

houe  /"  the  Emperor  JSTapoleon  is  reported  to  hare 
said,  pointing  to  a  magnificent  puddle  visible 
from  the  palace  window  at  the  Hague,  when  his 
mamma  asked  him  what  he  would  like  for  a  new- 
year's  gift.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  be  exposed, 
weak  and  defenceless,  in  a  Tub  :  yourself,  all  face 
as  the  Red  Indians  have  it,  and  in  that  smooth 
shiny  condition  at  once  a  prey  and  a  temptation 
to  the  horny  palm  of  a  quick-tempered  nursery- 
maid. However,  as  this  little  boy  is  to  many  in- 
tents and  purposes  master  of  the  house  in  which 
he  resides,  I  don't  think  that  he  suffers  more  than 
moderate  tribulations  in  connection  with  the  tub. 
At  all  events,  his  sorrows  are  over  when  he  comes 
down  to  me.  It  is  plain  that  the  face-and-hands- 
laving  he  goes  through  in  my  presence  is  in  his 
mind  a  pastime,  not  an  irksome  task.  It  is  a 
sight  to  see  him  immerse  his  small  paws  in  the 
water,  demurely  and  decorously  at  first,  but  grad- 
ually ceding  to  an  incontrollable  impulse  to 
splash.  At  7.30  years  of  age  what  rich  mines  of 
happiness  are  there  in  making  a  mess  !  His  per- 
formances with  the  nail  brush  are  wonderful ;  but 
they  are  ornamental,  not  useful,  the  little  boy 
having  very  little  nails  to  speak  of.  He  goes 
nevertheless  through  all  the  traditional  etiquette 
of  "  making  himself  tidy,"  and  in  so  doing  re- 
minds me  irresistibly  of  a  kitten  of  which  I  have 
been  lately  bereaved,  and  now  of  a  rabbit  sprue- 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  35 

ing  himself  up  in  the  presence  of  a  boa-constrict- 
or, unconscious  that  the  monster  in  the  blanket 
is  about  to  breakfast  upon  him — as  7,  the  domes- 
tic boa  (or  bore),  propose  to  do  presently  upon 
the  little  boy — not  truly  to  the  extent  of  devour- 
ing him,  but  merely  with  a  view  to  making  him 
my  theme  for  half-a-dozen  pages  or  so.  He  pro- 
ceeds to  comb  the  little  auburn  mop  which  sur- 
rounds his  head  like  a  carelessly-drawn  nimbus, 
and  makes  about  eight  partings  in  indifferent 
directions  in  lieu  of  one.  All  of  these  faits  et 
gestes  are,  I  need  scarcely  observe,  perfunctory, 
and  merely  devised  for  the  purpose  of  "putting 
him  in  the  way  of  things."  Anon  he  will  be 
made  spruce  and  tidy  by  other  hands. 

He  has  been  by  no  means  silent  during  these 
varied  operations.  He  has  on  entering  bidden 
me  good  morning,  and  "  passed  the  time  of  day," 
as  it  is  colloquially  termed.  He  has  likewise,  in 
the  course  of  about  ten  minutes,  asked  me  about 
fifty  questions.  Some  of  these  are,  I  must  own, 
embarrassing.  I  admit  that  I  am  shaky  as  to  my 
geography,  and  that  I  do  not  know  the  exact  dis- 
tance from  London  to  Turkey  in  Asia.  I  con- 
cede the  general  propositions  started  by  the  little 
boy  that  Russia  looks  very  big  on  the  map,  and 
that  it  is  a  long  way  to  Spain  ;  but  when  he  pro- 
ceeds to  cross-question  me  as  to  Sweden  and  Den- 
mark, and  generally  to  retail  to  me  so  much  as 


\ 


c 


36  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;   OB, 

he  remembers  of  his  last  oral  lesson  from  Misa 
Mangnall  of  the  Preparatory  Establishment  for 
Young  Gentlemen,  I  take  refuge  on  my  deaf  side, 
hum  something  from  the  Trovatore,  or  artfully 
start  a  fresh  topic  of  conversation.  But  I  am 
proud  to  say  that,  however  close  I  may  be  run,  I 
never  take  refuge  in  the  time-dishonored  evasion 
that  "  little  boys  ought  not  to  ask  questions  " — 
than  which  I  think  there  is  no  crueller,  stupider, 
or  wickeder  shield  to  your  own  ignorance  and 
bar  to  another's  enlightenment,  extant.  I  re- 
member that,  as  a  child,  I  used  to  be  beaten  for 
being  inquisitive ;  and  I  know  that  by  this  time 
I  should  be  begging  my  bread  and  not  earning 
it  did  I  not  pass  the  major  portion  of  my  time 
in  asking  questions.  Good  Heavens !  what  would 
become  of  the  world  if  little  boys  were  not  per- 
mitted to  ask  questions  ?  When  grown  up,  they 
would  be  at  grass  with  Nebuchadnezzar,  and 
have  one  life  with  the  beasts  of  the  field.  Yet 
may  there  be  something  belonging  to  the  inner 
mystery  of  our  being  in  this  prohibition  of  know- 
ledge-seeking to  infancy.  How  we  lie  and  lie  to 
children  almost  until  they  become  men  and  wo- 
men !  How  sedulously  we  keep  secret  the  pri- 
mary things  we  know,  and  yet  are  so  ready  to 
impart  the  knowledge  of  that  we  know  nothing 
of — the  Devil !  The  upas  shadow  of  the  Tree 
of  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil  is  upon  us,  and 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  37 

we  dread  to  drag  the  bantlings  into  it.  For  who 
has  puberty  and  reason  bnt  knows  that  he  is  per- 
petually pursued  by  a  sphynx  propounding  the 
unanswerable  enigma,  "  What  is  Life  ?" — failing 
to  answer  which  the  sphynx  devours  him  and  he 
dies? 

There  are  other  ways  in  which  the  little  boy's 
interrogatories  are  perplexing.  "When  he  comes 
up  again  while  I  am  breakfasting,  to  bid  me 
good-bye  before  proceeding  to  school,  he  some- 
times asks  "  why  I  have  not  eaten  all  my  bread- 
and-butter  ?"  I  may  answer,  "  Because  I  have  a 
headache."  He  may  resume,  "  But  why  have  I 
a  headache  ?"  To  this  my  response  may  be,  "  Be- 
cause I  was  out  very  late."  "  But  why  was  I  out 
very  late  ?"  I  may  reply,  "  Because  I  was  de- 
tained at  the  office  correcting  proofs."  Here  I 
have  the  little  boy  on  the  hip.  The  correction 
of  proofs  is  as  yet  a  profound  mystery  to  him, 
and  his  inquisitive  faculty  does  not  at  present  ex- 
tend beyond  "  why."  When  he  is  eight,  he  will 
begin  to  ask  "  what "  and  "  where."  When  he 
is  a  man,  he  will  ask  "  who." 

He  is  a  condescending  little  boy,  not  at  all 
proud,  and  is  glad  to  act  as  a  species  of  domestic 
commissionnaire,  fetching  and  carrying  such 
small  matters  as  letters,  newspapers,  anchovy 
paste  up  and  down  stairs.  He  is  told  that  his 
performance  of  these  little  offices  "  saves  the  ser- 


38 


vants'  legs ;"  and  I  think  that  willingness  and 
courtesy  on  the  part  of  children  save  not  only  the 
servants'  legs  but  their  tempers  likewise,  and  that 
to  teach  a  child  to  say  "  if  you  please  "  when- 
ever he  asks  a  retainer  for  anything,  is  almost  as 
useful  as  a  lecture  upon  geography.  Have  you 
not  known  a  little  boy  the  pest  and  nuisance  of 
and  entire  house,  and  cursed  by  the  subordinates 
he  is  permitted  to  bully  ?  The  "  bloated  aristo- 
cracy "  set  us  a  shining  example  in  this  respect. 
Who  keep  their  servants  longest — for  two  gene- 
rations often — and  leave  them  legacies  when  they 
die  ?  The  haughtiest  nobles,  who,  as  a  class,  are 
uniformly  courteous  and  urbane  to  their  domes- 
tics. Who  change  their  servants  once  a  month — 
once  a  week  sometimes — and  are  for  ever  wrans:- 
ling  and  jangling  with  them?  The  ignorant, 
envious,  selfish,  stuck-up  classes.  A  little  boy 
tyrannizing  over  a  servant  is,  next  to  a  little  boy 
lending  out  his  pocket-money  at  interest,  the  un- 
loveliest  of  human  sights. 

And  so  this  quiet  little  creature  walks  and  talks 
in  his  Lilliputian  way  about  the  house,  until  it  is 
time  for  him  to  go  to  school.  It  is  the  privilege 
of  the  cook  to  convey  him  thither,  and  to  fetch 
him  when  school  is  over  ;  and  although  I  think 
he  knows  the  way  to  Miss  Mangnall's  Prepara- 
tory Establishment  in  Great  Pinnock  Street  much 
better  than  Cook  (who  is  from  the  country)  knows 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  39 

it,  he  very  cheerfully  acquiesces  in  the  arrange- 
ment as  part  of  his  state  of  nonage  and  pupilage. 
He  would  as  soon  think  of  proceeding  to  school 
alone  as  of  smoking  a  meerschaum-pipe  on  his 
way  thither.  He  thoroughly  accepts  and  under- 
stands his  position  as  a  very  little  boy.  Now  and 
then,  when  I  am  dawdling  over  a  book,  and  he, 
playing  with  his  few  toys,  is  adjuring  imaginary 
horses,  locomotive  engines,  or  railway  porters  "to 
come  up,"  or  marshalling  mystical  armies  into 
position,  I  catch  a  shrewd  glance  in  the  corners 
of  his  eyes  directed  towards  me,  as  though  he 
were  thinking,  "I  dare  say  that  I  am  talking 
nonsense  ;  but  why  shouldn't  I  talk  it,  being  such 
a  very  little  boy !"  Children  have  a  wonderful 
power  of  conjuring  up  invisible  interlocutors; 
and  I  think  I  would  much  sooner  hear  a  little  boy 
"playing  at  being"  something  he  is  not,  or  con- 
versing with  a  fancied  playmate,  than  witness  the 
hallucination  of  Justice  Trice  in  Dryden's  play, 
who  is  discovered  "  playing  at  tables  with  himself, 
spectacles  on,  and  a  bottle  and  parmesan  before 
him,"  crying,  "  Cinq  and  cater:  my  cinq  I  play 
here,  sir  ;  my  cater  here,  sir.  Bat  first  I'll  drink 
to  you,  sir.  Upon  my  faith,  I'll  do  you  reason." 
I  have  travelled  about  half-way  through  Break- 
fast in  Bed  when  it  is  time  for  the  little  boy  to 
depart  for  school.  He  comes,  fully  equipped  for 
the  Groves  of  Academe,  to  bid  me  farewell ;  and 


40 


although  he  revisits  the  house  at  midday,  I  see 
no  more  of  him  until  evening,  when  just  before 
dinner  and  his  bed-time  he  asks  me  a  few — say 
half  a  hundred — more  questions. 

I  believe  that  in  accordance  with  the  modern 
formula  of  essay-writing  I  should  properly  cry, 
"I,  curre!"  to  this  little  boy,  and  say  something 
about  his  youth,  his  innocence,. his  big  blue  eyes, 
and  his  fair  hair  curling  like  the  young  tendrils 
of  the  vine.  I  elect  to  do  nothing  whatever  of 
the  kind.  lie  is  simply  a  very  grave  problem 
and  study  to  me;  and  whither  his  life-journey 
may  tend  I  am  sure  I  don't  know.  For  the  sake 
of  his  few  surviving  relatives  I  trust  that  he  will 
not  be  hanged ;  but  who  knows  ?   Who  can  tell  ? 

"  Oh  toi  qui  passes  par  ce  cloitre, 
Recueilles-toi :  tu  n'es  pas  sur 
De  voir  s'allonger  et  s'accroitre 
Uu  autre  jour  ton  ombre  au  rnur." 

So  sings  very  sweetly  and  sadly  M.  Theophile 
Gautier.  So  is  it  with  the  most  tenderly-nurtured 
childhood.  This  little  boy,  I  humbly  hope,  will 
lack  no  careful  blue-aproned  gardener,  no  hot- 
water  pipes,  no  artful  composts  or  well-glazed 
conservatory  to  grow  him ;  but  when  he  is  grown, 
what  next?  Can  I  insure  the  fruit  against  the 
inroads  of  innumerable  animalcule,  now  to  us 
invisible?  For  the  credit  of  humanity,  I  hope 
and  believe  that  most  of  those  who  have  the 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  41 

charge  of  a  child  regard  that  charge  as  awful  in 
its  responsibilities.  I  look  around  and  see 
churches  and  schools  crowded  with  young  child- 
ren ;  but,  alas,  are  they  only  the  neglected  or  the 
ill-treated  ones  who  come  to  grief?  The  ab- 
surdity of  a  mother  telling  you  that  the  baby  she 
is  nursing  is  to  be  an  engineer  or  a  barrister 
seems  palpable  enough  ;  but  do  not  the  sternest, 
most  matter-of-fact  parents  and  guardians  fall 
into  absurdities  quite  as  ridiculous?  Try  to 
speculate  upon  the  future  of  the  thousands  of 
charity  children  whose  silver  voices  float  up- 
wards, once  a  year,  into  the  dusky  space  of  the 
Great  Dome  of  St.  Paul's.  Essay  to  predict  what 
is  to  become  of  the  eight  hundred  Eton  boys  who 
are  nocking  into  the  Great  Western  Railway 
carriages,  and  coming  whooping  home  from  the 
holidays.  The  charity  boys  and  girls  are  sedu- 
lously and  piously  taught ;  tlie  Eton  boys  are 
watched  over  by  grave  and  learned  divines, 
destined  perchance  to  become  archbishops.  And 
what  next  ?  "  That  living  flood,  pouring  through 
those  streets,  of  all  qualities,  all  ages,  knowest 
thou  whence  it  is  coming,  whither  it  is  going  % 
Aus  der  Ewiglceit)  zu  der  Ewigheit  hin — From 
Eternity,  onwards  to  Eternity.  These  are  ap- 
paritions :  what  else  ?" 

The  philoprogenitive  reader  will  have  scarcely 
failed  to  discover  long  before  this  that  the  little 


42  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

boy  I  have  been  speaking  of  does  not  belong  to 
me.  Indeed  he  is  no  child  of  mine,  Albeit  I 
am  his  Uncle,  no  blood  of  mine  is  in  his  veins. 
He  is  a  smiling  young  Anglo-Saxon,  with  an 
English  face  and  English  eyes.  This  admis 
sion  may,  as  I  have  hinted,  be  entirely  super- 
fluous. Lord  bless  you !  if  he  were  my  child, 
I  should  have  broken  out  long  since,  in  rap- 
tures. I  should  have  apostrophised  him  as 
my  pet,  my  poppet,  my  darling,  my  winsome, 
tricksome  baby-boy.  lie  knows  that  I  regard 
him  as  neither  winsome  nor  tricksome,  and  that 
I  would  rather  not  have  any  of  his  tricks.  There 
is  nobody  in  the  house  to  call  him  poppet  or  pet, 
or  to  cuddle  and  cocker  him.  Until  he  grows 
up  and  loses  his  heart  to  a  woman,  or  has  money 
to  lend  to  a  man,  he  will  find  none  to  flatter  him. 
"  Poor  neglected  cherub  !"  the  fond  mother  may 
exclaim,  "  to  pine  "away  under  this  cold,  harsh 
tutelage !"  I  don't  think,  to  judge  from  his  ring- 
ing laughter,  and  the  quantity  of  bread  and  but- 
ter he  eats,  that  he  is  at  all  disposed  to  pine 
away.  Indeed  he  seems  to  be  about  as  happy  as 
the  day  is  long.  If,  by  Heaven's  wisdom,  he  has 
been  deprived  of  that  flood  of  passionate  affection 
which  only  parents  can  bestow,  he  is  safe,  on  the 
other  hand,  from  those  tempests  of  unjust  anger 
and  ferocity  in  which  only  parents  are  permitted 
to  indulge.     I  have  generally  found  that  the  in- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  43 

dulgent  parents  thrash  their  darlings  most.  The 
spoilt  child  gets  seldom  that  most  inestimable 
boon  in  education — Equity — in  the  judgments 
passed  upon  him ;  that  Equity  which  is  "  the 
right  witness  that  considereth  all  the  particular 
circumstances  of  the  deed,  the  which  also  is  tem- 
pered with  the  sweetness  of  mercy."  In  house- 
holds where  the  honey-pot  is  always  open,  there 
seldom  fails  to  be  an  abundance  of  wax  (spelt 
"  whacks") ;  yet  do  I  hope  to  solve  the  problem  of 
bringing  up  a  child  that  I  have  not  begotten  with- 
out spoiling  and  without  laying  a  finger  on  him. 
O  ho  !  this  paragraph  must  surely  awaken 
Hircius  and  Spungius.  "  Misanthrope  !  Egotist ! 
Yile  sciolist !"  I  hear  those  worthies  yelp.  ?'  Miser- 
able Yahoo,  following  in  the  trail  of  Swift.  Does 
he,  forsooth,  wish  to  enter  the  nursery  like  an 
ogre,  and  declare  war  upon  infants  ?  What  does 
he  know  about  children  ?  Had  he  ever  a  baby  ?" 
Even  so,  I  am  childless  ;  but  am  I  out  of  court  ? 
Hircius,  I  know,  has  fruitful  loins.  He  has  but 
to  cast  a  stone  over  the  wTorkhouse  wall  to  hit 
one  of  his  brats.  Spungius  is  great  in  babies ; 
deafens  people  with  their  praises  while  alive, 
borrows  money  to  bury  them  when  they  die.  If 
I  had  ever  known  this  little  boy  in  babyhood,  I 
think  I  could  manage  to  say  something  senti- 
mental on  the  baby-question.  It  would  have 
been  egotistical,  but   still  an  egotism  that  the 


44:  BREAKFAST   IN    BED  J    OB, 

whole  world  pardons.  This  is  the  country  of 
baby  worship ;  and  the  baby-devotee  is  never 
accused  of  being  an  idolater.  It  is  a  safe  thing 
to  write  sentimentally  about  babies.  Baby  litera- 
ture is  sure  to  sell.  Some  modern  authors  have 
taken  to  saying  their  prayers  in  print ;  others  to 
praising  their  own  works  ;  and  a  few  to  abusing 
their  species  ;  but  the  most  popular  form  of  litera- 
ture is  that  which  lends  itself  to  pouring  melted 
butter  over  one's  own  chicks.  Here,  by  my  bed- 
side is  a  fat  little  volume,  gorgeous  in  crimson 
and  gold,  lately  put  out  by  Messrs.  Eoutledge, 
and  bearing  the  highly  popular  name  of 
"William  C.  Bennett.  I  open  the  book  at  ran- 
dom, and  read : 

"  Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches  ; 
Lips  whose  dewy  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness  ;  round  large  eyes, 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise. 

*  *  *  * 
Clutching  fingers,  straightening  jerks, 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works. 

Slumbers — such  sweet  angel  seemings, 
That  we'd  ever  have  such  dreamings. 

*  *  *  * 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness  ; 
Joy  in  ease,  delight  .in  sadness; 
Lovliness  beyond  completeness  ; 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness; 
Beauty  all  that  Beauty  may  be, — 
That's  May  Bennett,  that's  my  baby." 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  45 

There  are  over  two-score  couplets  in  this  poem ; 
but  I  have  only  been  able  to  quote  a  few  lines. 
I  am  not  at  all  inclined  to  sneer  at  these  verses 
as  namby-pamby,  or  to  cavil  at  such  somewhat 
too  plastic  versification  as  "  gladness  "  and  "  sad- 
ness." "  seemings  "  and  "  dreamings."  I  am 
glad  to  recognise  in  Mr.  "William  C.  Bennett  a 
very  tender,  musical,  fascinating  lyrist.  I  am 
sure  .he  means  all  that  he  says,  and  more.  I  am 
given  to  understand  that  he  has  earned  the  title 
of  the  "  Laureate  of  the  Babies,"  and  that  his 
chirping,  kindly  books  sell  by  tens  of  thousands. 
And  I  shall  not  have,  perhaps,  one  in  a  thousand 
readers  who  will  regard  my  view  of  the  baby 
question  with  anything  but  contempt  and  abhor- 
ence.  I  turn  over  the  leaves  of  Mr.  Bennett's 
pretty  book,  and  light  on  an  infinity  of  baby 
lyrics:  "Baby  May,"  "Baby's  shoes,"  "Tod- 
dling May,"  "  Cradle  songs,"  "  Mother's  songs," 
"  To  our  Baby  Kate,"  "  Epitaphs  for  infants," 
"On  a  Dead  Infant,"  and  many  more  on  the 
same  sweet,  well-worn,  but  not  worn-out  theme. 
I  have  already  expressed  my  faith  in  Mr.  Ben- 
nett's sincerity.  In  his  engraved  portrait  by  the 
frontispiece  he  looks  like  a  man  who  loves 
babies;  and  thousands  of  mothers,  I  have  no 
doubt,  tearfully  murmured  "  God  bless  him !" 
when  they  read  his  poems.  Surely  it  is  wicked, 
sardonic,  to  come  prowling  into  this  baby  para- 


46  BEEAKFAST  IN  BED  ;    OE, 

dise  and  trample  down  the  daisies.  But  Duty  is 
a  stern  monitor,  and  Duty  compels  me  to  ask 
whether  the  intensity  of  baby  worship  does  not 
depend,  after  all,  on  circumstances,  and  whether 
those  circumstances  do  not  often  alter  cases  in  a 
very  strange  and  melancholy  manner?  It  is 
probable  that  Mr.  Bennett  lives  in  a  very  nice 
house,  and  has  everything  that  heart  can  wish 
for  ;  that  his  babies  are  brought  to  him  at  proper 
times  and  seasons,  duly  spruced  and  beautified, 
and  that  there  is  a  five-barred  gate  on  the  nur- 
sery landing  to  prevent  his  young  ones  tumbling 
down-stairs.  Yiewed  through  this  radiant  me- 
dium, this  atmosphere  of  blue-kid  shoes  and 
satin  bows,  pap-spoons,  corals,  laced  robes,  em- 
broidered hoods,  and  plumed  hats — with  any 
amount  of  baby  linen  procurable  from  the  Spon- 
salia,  and  a  kind  doctor  always  ready  round  the 
corner  in  case  of  infantile  ailments — the  baby 
becomes  indeed  a  delight  and  a  treasure ;  it  is 
another  element  in  British  comfort.  It  is  as 
much  a  part  of  papa's  home  joys  as  his  slippers, 
his  "  Illustrated  News,"  or  his  evening  tumbler. 
A  well-to-do  middle-class  house  is  hardly  com- 
plete without  a  filter,  a  Kent's  knife-cleaner,  a 
moderator  lamp,  and  a  baby.  All  these  articles 
are  to  be  found  in  their  several  places,  and  min- 
ister in  their  several  degrees  to  the  felicity  and 
solace  of   those   who  possess   them.     But   how 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  47 

about  the  hovel  where  a  baby  is  bom,  and  there 
is  nothing  but  a  baker's  old  jacket  to  wrap  it 
in  ?     How  about  the  babies  of  shame  that  are 
packed  up  in  hampers,  strangled  in  secret  places, 
flung  into  dustbins,  deserted  on  doorsteps  ?  "Who 
writes    sonnets    on    the   workhouse    babies,   or 
mourns  over  their  fate  when  they  are  burnt  to 
death  by  twenties  ?     When  poverty  and  naked- 
ness and  hunger  sit  grinning  on  the  poor  man's 
hearth,  is  the  sick  baby  a  household  joy  or  a 
household    misery?      Oh,   my   brethren    (since 
homilies   are   the  fashion),    how   we    brag   and 
boast    and    bemuse   ourselves    about    our    own 
babies,  and  how  little  we  reck   about  what  be- 
comes of  other  people's  babies  !     How  the  pious 
and  decorous  matron  drives  frQm.  her  door  the 
wretched  nursemaid  who  has  a  base-born  infant ! 
If  this  baby  worship  were  sincere,  and   not   a 
congested   kind   of  personal  vanity,  often   gro- 
tesque enough,  and  of  which  the  still  more  ludi- 
crous  side  was  to  be   seen  in  the  abominable 
American   baby-shows,  should  we  not  feel    in- 
clined to  devise  some  measures  to  prevent  babies 
being  murdered  or  starved,  to  force  profligate 
men    to    make    provision    for    their   by-blows? 
What  is  the  much-vaunted  baby  in  the  manufac- 
turing districts  but  a  thing  to  be  drugged  with 
"  cordials  "  and  "  elixirs,"  or  to  be  "  overlaid  ?" 
Ask  the  parish  undertaker  what  he  knows  about 


48  BREAKFAST   IN  BED  I   OE 


the  dark  side  of  babyhood.  Ask  the  parish 
doctor,  ask  Dr.  Lankester  the  coroner.  We  go 
on  simpering  forth  fiddledee  about  our  own 
babies,  and  pass,  indifferent,  through  a  whole 
Golgotha  of  dead  babies'  bones.  I  am  as  poor, 
Heaven  knows,  as  Job,  and  have  a  hard  struggle 
to  make  both  ends  meet ;  yet  I  would  cheerfully 
work  my  fingers  to  the  bone,  and  be  my  hun- 
dred pounds  to  any  one  else's  hundred,  to  estab- 
lish were  it  the  tiniest  nucleus  of  a  real  Found- 
ling Hospital  in  lieu  of  that  sham  place  in 
Guildford  Street,  where  the  "  mother "  is  to 
"present  herself  before  the  committee"  before 
the  foundling  can  be  admitted.  I  declare  that 
jobbed  and  perverted  charity  is  enough  to 
make  the  bones  of  Thomas  Coram  turn  in  their 
grave. 

When  I  read  of  the  delightful,  smiling,  tod- 
dling little  thing  Mr.  Bennett  so  charmingly  de- 
scribes— when  I  see  the  baby  portraits  and 
baby  "  pistolgrams  "  advertised — when  I  wander 
in  a  wilderness  of  perambulators,  india-rubber 
balls,  lollipops,  hoops,  kid-shoes,  and  so  forth 
— I  think  sometimes  that  it  is  good  to  hang 
a  bunch  of  hyssop  in  the  wine  cup,  and  to  ask 
whether  we  do  not  plume  ourselves  somewhat 
too  much  about  the  beauty  and  happiness  and 
purity  of  babyhood.  I  think  I  have  glanced 
more  than  once  upon  a  poor  little  gasping  lump 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  49 

of  damp  dough  with  a  chronic  stomach-ache. 
I  think  Shakespeare  has  drawn  in  half  a  dozen 
words  a  terrible  life-like  picture  of  the  human 
baby.  And,  as  a  final  corrective  to  overweening 
pride  in  babies,  I  turn  to  my  Thomas  a  Kempis, 
and  in  the  preface  read  these  true  and  mournful 
lines : 

"  The  human  infant  is  a  picture  of  such  de- 
formity, weakness,  nakedness,  and  helpless  dis- 
tress, as  is  not  to  he  found  among  the  home-born 
animals  of  this  world.  The  chicken  has  its 
birth  from  no  sin,  and  therefore  comes  forth  in 
beauty  j  it  runs  and  pecks  as  soon  as  its  shell  is 
broken  ;  the  calf  and  the  lamb  go  both  to  play  as 
soon  as  the  dam  is  delivered  of  them  j  they  are 
pleased  with  themselves,  and  please  the  eye  that 
beholds  their  frolicksome  state  and  beauteous 
clothing  J  whilst  the  new-born  babe  of  a  woman, 
that  is  to  have  an  %ipright  form,  and  view  the 
heavens,  and  worship  the  God  that  made  them, 
lies  for  months  in  gross  ignorance,  weakness  and 
impurity  /  as  sad  a  spectacle  when  he  first 
breathes  the  life  of  this  world,  as  when,  in  the 
agonies  of  death,  he  breathes  his  last.77 

I  think  it  would  do  all  of  us  good,  the  childful 
as  well  as  the  childless,  to  ponder  a  little  over 
these  words  before  we  bragged  too  much  about 
Baby. 


50  BKEAKFAST  ET  BED  ;   OB, 


0£T  MR.  MAYOR'S  SPELLING-BOOK. 

My  Library  is  not  a  very  extensive  one.  The 
publishers  rarely  send  me  copies  of  new  works,  for 
the  very  sufficient  reason  that,  when  they  do,  I 
generally  abuse  them.  My  brother  authors,  I  fear, 
don't  like  me,  and  I  certainly  don't  like  them  ; 
and  so  they  have  given  up  forwarding  me  pre- 
sentation copies  of  their  productions.  On  my 
few  shelves,  I  am  glad  to  say,  there  are  no  works 
of  my  own. 

Who  would  wish  to  preserve  the  double-tooth, 
wrenched,  after  so  many  dire  dental  struggles, 
from  the  unwilling  jaw?  Who,  but  a  hypo- 
chondriac would  keep  an  assorted  collection  of 
coffin  nails  in  his  study — and  what  are  a  man's 
own  printed  writings  but  so  many  nails  in  his 
coffin  ?  When  one  has  been  long  on  the  rack, 
and  is  quit  of  it  till  to-morrow  morning,  it  is  as 
well  to  double-lock  the  door  of  the  Torture- 
Room,  and  hide  the  dismal  engine  of  agony  from 
view. 

How  you,  my  eminent  friend,  regard  the  little 
noveh,  essays,  dramas,  poems,  etc.,  your  facile 
pen  has  composed,  I  know  not,    To  me  the  labors 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  51 

of  my  hand  are  but  so  many  memorials  of  research 
in  vain,  want,  anguish,  and  defeat.  But  then, 
perhaps,  you  are  not  in  the  habit  of  wrestling 
with  wild-beasts  at  Ephesus,  or  of  endeavoring  to 
convince  a  perverse  generation.  Better,  no  doubt, 
to  be  a  comfortable  lion  in  the  Ephesian  mana- 
ged e,  and  to  take  one's  shinbone  of  beef  thank- 
fully. In  the  preface  to  his  noblest  work,  says 
Father  Paul :  "  Tengo  per  fermo  che  quesf  opera 
sard  cli  pochi  letta,  eel  in  breve  tempo  inanchera 
di  vita,  non  temto  per  diffetto  di  forma,  quant o 
perlanatura  delta  materia" — which  in  our  tongue 
signifieth  this:  that  there  is  no  use  in  striving; 
that  if  vour  book  has  all  the  learning  of  Bellar- 
min,  and  all  the  acumen  of  Dom  Calmet,  and  all 
the  painstaking  of  Florez,  and  all  the  majesty  of 
Tillotson,  and  all  the  eloquence  of  Taylor,  and  all 
the  wit  of  Swift,  it  shall  not  save  its  author  from 
being  sneered  at,  in  a  bankrupt  review,  as  an 
ignorant  dolt — sneered  at  by  a  boy-critic,  who 
six  months  since  was  caned  at  school  ;  that, 
cunning,  artistically,  as  your  book  may  be,  it 
must  be  essentially  fading  and  ephemeral ;  and 
that  the  highest  tide  of  success  will  not  rescue 
it  at  last  from  the  fourpenny-box  at  a  book- 
stall. 

And  woe  to  him,  unless  he  be  a  Giant,  who 
dedicates  his  work  to  Posterity,  and  trusts  in  after 
ages  to  do  him  justice.     Posterity!     Posterity 


52  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;   OK, 

will  singe  a  goose  with  your  magnum  opus. 
After  ages !  They  will  wrap  penn'orths  of  pud- 
ding in  the  unsold  sheets  of  your  Epic.  Waters 
of  Marah  to  him  who  deems  himself  a  benefactor 
to  his  kind,  and  holds  himself  as  necessary  to  the 
world's  scheme  !  Jeremy  Bentham  so  did  ;  and 
who,  save  a  few  who  meet  once  a  year  to  dine 
with  his  mummy,  are  grateful  to  Jeremy  Ben- 
tham, the  Father  of  Eeform  ?  Necessary  !  "  It  is 
the  disease  of  Princes,"  said  Napoleon  (when  he 
found  that  the  nations  had  had  enough  of  him), 
"  to  believe  themselves  necessary.  No  man  is 
necessary — I,  no  more  than  the  others.  Alex- 
ander and  Caesar  are  dead,  and  still  the  world 
rolls  on  its  course  without  them."  And  let  this 
be  a  warning  to  you,  Tupper,  hero  of  six-and-forty 
editions. 

And  yet  I  know  there  are  authors  who  love  to 
look  upon  the  things  they  have  written — nay, 
dote  upon  them,  calling  them  by  endearing 
names,  thinking  the  worst  the  best,  and  bestow- 
ing Grollier  and  Renaissance  bindings,  gold 
scrolling,  and  blind  tooling  upon  them.  Our 
•  deformed  brats  are  often  the  best  beloved.  So 
used  Monsieur  Francois-Marie- Arouet,  called  Vol- 
taire, to  fondle  his  multifarious  writings.  Be- 
hold the  weazened,  shrivelled,  hatchet-faced, 
wicked-eyed  Patriarch  of  Ferney,  in  coat  of  cut- 
velvet,   and  silken-covered   spindle-shanks,   and 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  53 

towering  white  periwig,  hugging  the  Edito  Prin- 
cess of  his  "  Pucelle,"  which  he  has  had  bound  in 
sable  morocco.  When  he  is  in  a  good  temper, 
he  caresses  the  scurril  tome,  and  calls  it  "  Ma 
Jeanne — maJeanneton  /" — the  old  rascal !  When 
he  is  in  evil  case,  and  bethinks  himself  that  a 
.Day  must  come  for  frying  and  howling,  he 
spurns  the  polecat  thing,  and  cries  "  Ce  livre-ld 
a  ete  ecrit  par  un  laquais  ivre"  The  great 
authors  of  the  present  day  may  be  equally  par- 
tial to  their  bantlings. 

And  those  great  authors,  who  are  they  ?  Let 
me  hasten  to  name  the  Editor  of  "Zadkiel's  Al- 
manac," the  scholar  and  gentleman  who  pens  the 
dramatic  criticisms  in  the  "London  Gazette" 
(published  by  authority),  and  Mr.  George  Francis 
Train.  I  would  have  whispered  thy  name,  my 
Hircius ;  but  thou  art  modest.  Spungius,  thy 
alias  should  have  been  added  to  the  list,  but  that 
I  know  thee  to  be  fierce  in  opposition  to  the  pre- 
sent Ministry  ;  nor  would  I  expose  Lord  Palmer- 
ston  by.  indiscreetly  calling  attention  to  thy 
merits  to  the  humiliation  of  seeing  a  proffered 
pension  refused  by  Spungius,  the  upright  and  in- 
corruptible. 

"  Ah,  que  nous  ne  sommes  rien  /"  cried  Bos- 
suet,  preaching  on  earthly  vanities  before  the 
gilded  court  at  Yersailles,  who,  of  a  certainty, 
thought   "  some  punkins  "    of  themselves.     Oh, 


54  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OK, 

Eagle  of  Meaux,  thou  errest !     Evil  is  an  entity, 
and  we  are  bad ;  and  to  be  bad  is  to  be  some- 
thing.    For  instance,  this  morning,  Breakfasting 
in  Bed,  I  feel  as  bad  as  bad  can  be,  morally  and 
physically.     It  is  an  abominable  foggy  morning. 
I  have  complained  of  the  fog,  which  is  wrong. 
To  be  right  I  should  have  been  resigned  to  any 
little  variation  in  the  weather.   Then  I  was  angry 
because  they  would  not  let  me  have  any  muffins. 
Why  should  I  be  deprived  of  muffins  ?     There 
used  to  be  muffins.     But  four  months  since,  I 
had  new-laid  eggs  every  morning   at  dear  old 
U.  C. ;  I  never  thought  of  Breakfasting  in  Bed 
there.     JSTow,  a  dingy  bolus,  with  dusky  specks 
of  straw  glued  to  its  shell,  reminds  me,  by  its 
mustiness,  of  the  blessings  of  the  Anglo-French 
Treaty  of  Commerce.     A  French  egg  this,  and 
charged   at  the  price  of  a  new-laid  one.     The 
newspapers,  too,    came   late.     The  mendacious 
newsboy   said   that   the    "machine  had   broken 
down."     What !   all  the  machines  ?     Was  there, 
then,    a  conspiracy   against   all   the   presses   in 
pressdom?     In  fact,  it  was  this  lack  of  journal- 
ism that  led  me  first  to  quarrel  with  my  break- 
fast, and  then  to  begin  thinking  about  books,  and 
thence  to  turn  to  their  writers,  and  then  to  be- 
moan myself,   and   say  that  I   didn't  like  my 
brother  authors;  whereas,  the  truth   is,  that  I 
love  them  dearly,  every  one.     Bless  them !    It  is 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE  SHEETS.  55 

clear  that  I  am  in  an  envious,  discontented, 
and  thoroughly  uncharitable  state  of  mind  this 
morning. 

Will  the  little  book  I  keep  under  my  pillow 
console  me?  I  turn  up  page.  167,  and  read, 
"  Constantly  endeavor  to  do  the  will  of  another 
rather  than  thy  own.  Constantly  prefer  a  state 
of  want  to  a  state  of  abundance.  Constantly 
choose  the  lowest  place,  and  to  be  inferior  to  all. 
He  that  doeth  this,  enters  into  the  regions  of 
rest  and  peace."  These  beautiful  words  either 
mean  something  or  nothing.  They  cannot  be 
accepted  with  a  Jesuitical  reservation.  If  I  con- 
strue them  literally,  I  must,  if  my  publishers  tell 
me  to  write  down  freedom,  progress,  and  educa- 
tion, do  their  will  and  not  my  own,  which  runs 
in  precisely  the  contrary  direction.  I  must 
abandon  all  hopes  of  muffins,  because  it  is  the 
will  of  others  that  I  should  not  have  them.  I 
must  constantly  prefer  going  in  rags,  dwelling 
in  a  garret,  and  pinching  my  belly,  to  wearing 
warm  broadcloth,  to  living  in  a  snug  house,  to 
dining  on  roast  mutton.  If  I  am  invited  to  take 
the  chair  at  the  annual  festival  of  the  Charitable 
Crumpet-Makers,  I  must  decline  the  honor,  or 
solicit  employment  as  a  waiter  or  plate-washer 
at  the  London  Tavern.  The  sentences  I  have 
quoted  are  not  from  an  inspired  writer,  and  I  am 
therefore  guiltless  o£  irreverence   in   discussing 


56  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  J    OR, 

them  ;  but  I  saw  lately  in  the  shop-window  of  a 
stationer  in  Chancery  Lane  a  schedule  of  rules  to 
be  observed  by  pious  persons  in  the  conduct  of 
their  daily  life,  each  rule  fortified  by  a  scriptural 
jtext. 

I  say  boldly,  that  if  we  acted  up  to  the  letter 
of  these  rules,  society  could  not  exist,  and  the 
world  would  become  a  howling  desert.  How 
could  we  get  on  if  nobody  took  the  chair ;  if 
everybody  went  tattered,  and  denied  himself 
food ;  if  nobody  exerted  the  "Will  that  Heaven 
has  implanted  in  him  ?  And  is  it  not  the  grossest 
simulation,  the  most "  unsophisticated  hypocrisy,'' 
as  Sir  Jonah  Barrington  pleonastically  puts  it,  to 
go  on  chattering  about  what  we  ought  to  do, 
when  we  are  perfectly  aware  that  we  cannot  do 
it,  and  that  the  whole  scheme  of  human  govern- 
ment and  society  forbids  us  even  to  attempt  it  ? 

Whereupon  I  return  to  my  Library.  The 
motive  of  my  alluding  to  it  at  all  you  shall  pre- 
sently hear.  I  am  cudgelling  my  brains  to  re- 
member if  it  contains  a  Spelling-book.  It  is  so 
many  years  since  I  conned  that  useful  volume. 
Dictionaries  and  vocabularies  I  have  galore,  in 
many  tongues.  Do  I  not  prize  a  certain  dimly- 
printed  collection  of  "  Domestic  Dialogues," 
written  in  French,  German,  Eussian,  and  Latin, 
in  which  there  is  positively  a  conversation  on 
drinking  beer  and  smoking  tobacco  :  "  De  Fie- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  57 

tilibus  tvMs  ad  xisum  NicoiianaP  Says  A  of 
the  Virginian  weed:  "  Equidem  fumi  haustu 
non  utor,  sed  pidvere  abutor."  A  is  no  smoker, 
but  a  snuffer.  Eemarks  the  Ciceronian  B  of 
beer,  "  Cerevisia  inter  Niootiaiva  usum  gratior 
gustus,  sine  qua  ne  uti  quidem  hoc  possum; 
quippe  qui  sitim  creet."  This  classical  gentleman 
thinks  that  a  glass  of  Allsopp's  Bitter  goes  well 
with  a  pipe  of  bird's-eye,  and  acknowledges  him- 
self a  beery  one ;  for  tobacco  parches  a  man, 
says  he.  Then  have  I  not  the  learned  Harris's 
"  Hermes",  of  which  more  anon,  as  the  profound 
Hodderius  says  ;  and  Sir  John  Stoddart's  "  Uni- 
versal Grammar,"  which  to  me  is  as  universal 
confusion  as  Kant's  "  Critique  of  Pure  Eeason," 
(which  Spungius  understands  so  well)  ?  I  pass 
over  Trench  "  On  Words,"  Grose's  "  Lexicon  Bala- 
tronicum,"  Pegge's  "Defence  of  the  Cockney  Dia- 
lect," and  Home  Tooke's  "  Diversions  of  Purley ;" 
for  this  morning  I  thirst  only  for  a  Spelling-book. 
"Where  is  Mavor?  Is  there  a  Mavor  in  the 
House  ?  The  newspapers  arrive,  and  I  become 
more  and  more  anxious  for  a  Spelling-book. 

There  is,  it  would  seem,  no  work  of  reference 
of  that  description  in  my  Library;  but  at  last  a 
dog's-eared  fasciculus,  much  blurred  with  pencil- 
marks,  and  smutched  and  smirched — I  trust  not 
with  infant  tears — is  discovered  in  the  possession 
of  the  Little  Boy  introduced  to  the  reader  in  the 
8* 


58  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OR, 

second  of  these  Papers.  He  is  at  first  loth  to 
give  up  Mavor ;  but  he  at  least  is  practically 
taught  that  it  is  his  duty  to  do  another's  will  in 
preference  to  his  own.  Mavor  is  taken  from  him 
for  the  use  of  his  cruel  uncle  ;  but  a  written  re- 
ceipt and  explanation  of  cause  for  detention  is 
given  to  him,  to  bear  him  harmless  on  his  arrival 
at  Miss  Man  small's  establishment. 

o 

Here  is  Mavor  at  last.  Revised  by  Cecil  Hart- 
ley, A.M. ;  the  one  hundred  and  seventieth  thou- 
sand. Here  are  the  famous  short  lessons  :  "  His 
pen  has  no  ink  in  it ;"  "  I  met  a  man  with  a  pig ;" 
"  Do  as  you  are  told,  or  it  may  be  bad  for  you." 
This  is  rather  fierce  in  its  minatory  style,  and 
Dr.  Mavor  must  have  got  it  from  Dr.  Busby. 
"  Come,  James,  make  haste.  Now  read  your 
book.  Here  is  a  pin  to  point  with."  Little  boys 
are  not  allowed  to  point  with  pins  nowadays. 
"  Tom  fell  in  the  pond.  He  was  a  bad  boy.  Jack 
Hall  was  a  good  boy.  He  took  pains  to  learn  as 
he  ought,  and  made  all  the  great  boys  his  friends." 
But  these  characters  have  been,  I  think,  more 
tersely  sketched  in  the  unpublished  Nursery  Edcla 
of  the  Titmarshian  Sage : 

"Little  Jack  Snook, 

Was  fond  of  his  book, 
And  was  much  beloved  by  his  master; 

But  naughty  Jack  Spry 

Has  got  a  black  eye, 
And  carries  his  nose  in  a  plaster" 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  59 

Then  comes  the  story  of  the  nice  girl,  but  who 
was  not  good,  and  told  fibs,  and  whose  cake  was 
eaten  by  a  mouse;  then  the  apologue  of  Miss 
Jane  Bond,  who  had  a  new  doll,  aud  whose  good 
aunt  gave  her  some  cloth  to  make  a  shift  for  it. 
O  Mr.  Cecil  Hartley,  A.M.,  do  you  call  this  edit- 
ing Mayor?  You  should  have  discreetly  sub- 
stituted for  that  sad  passage  about  the  S —  a  neat 
paragraph  to  the  effect  that  Miss  Jane  Bond's 
aunt  proceeded  to  the  Lilliputian  "Warehouse  in 
Regent  Street,  and  there  purchased  some  "  under- 
clothing "  for  her  niece's  doll. 

This  benevolent  lady  was  doubtless  the  Mrs. 
Bond  who  appears  to  have  kept  an  inn  or  hotel 
in  the  rural  districts,  and  who,  when  the  travellers 
were  hungry  and  desired  that  their  stomachs 
might  be  filled,  cried  out  to  the  ducks  in  the 
pond,  "  Dilly,  dilly,  dilly,  come  and  be  killed  j" 
but  they  would  not,  whereupon  Mrs.  Bond 

"  Flew  in  a  very  great  rage, 
With  plenty  of  onions  and  plenty  of  sage." 

And  it  was  bad  for  the  ducks,  because  they  would 
not  do  what  they  were  told. 

Frank  Pitt  and  his  fat  cheeks ;  Jane  whose 
hand  was  tied  up  in  a  cloth ;  the  girl  who  tied 
the  string  to  the  bird's  leg;  and  Harry  who 
gorged  his  cake  and  was  sick ;  and  Peter  Careful, 
who  ate  a  little  piece  of  his  cake  (the  young  cur- 
mudgeon !)  every  day,  but  kept  it  till  it  grew 


60  BEEAKFAST  TX  BED;   0E, 

mouldy  and  worthless :  all  these  friends  of  my 
youth  I  meet  and  pass  by ;  and  then  I  come  to 
Richard — Richard  Cceur  de  Lion  he  ou&'ht  to  be 
called — who  said  to  his  schoolmates,  "  I  have  got 
a  cake ;  let  us  go  and  eat  it ;"  and  when  they  had 
all  eaten,  there  remained  a  piece,  which  Richard 
put  by,  saying,  "  I  will  eat  it  to-morrow.'J 
But  a  blind  man  came  into  the  play-ground — ■ 
but  Mavor  shall  tell  the  rest :  "  He  said,  '  My 
pretty  lads,  if  you  will,  I  will  play  you  a  tune.' 
and  they  all  left  their  sport,  and  came  and  stood 
round  him.  And  Richard  saw  that  while  he 
played,  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks.  And 
Richard  said,  <  Old  man,  why  do  you  cry  V  And 
the  old  man  said,  i  Because  I  am  hungry  :  I  have 
no-bo- dy  to  give  me  any  dinner  or  supper :  I  have 
nothing  in  the  world  but  this  little  dog,  and  I 
cannot  work.  If  I  could  work  I  would.'  Then 
Richard  went,  without  saying  a  word,  and  fetched 
the  rest  of  his  cake,  which  he  had  intended  to 
eat  another  day ;  and  he  said,  '  Here,  old  man, 
here  is  some  cake  for  you.'  The  old  man  said, 
<  Where  is  it  ?  for  I  am  blind  ;  I  cannot  see  it.' 
So  Richard  put  it  into  his  hat.  And  the  fiddler 
thanked  him  ;  and  Richard  was  more  glad  than 
if  he  had  eaten  ten  cakes  himself." 

I  wish  that  Mr.  Mulready  or  Mr.  "Webster 
would  take  Richard  and  the  blind  fiddler  as  a 
subject  for  a  picture;  and  I  have  often  thought 
this  simple  story  to  be  one  of  the  noblest  and 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  61 

most  pathetic  narratives  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. 

Still  turning  over  the  trim  tome  bound  in 
green  cloth,  which,  by  virtue  of  a  forced  loan 
from  the  Little  Boy,  has  come  into  my  possession, 
I  cannot  avoid  murmuring  that  it  is  not  the 
Havor  of  my  youth ;  that  it  has  experienced 
change,  and  that  the  change  has  not  been  one 
for  the  better.  My  old  spelling-book  wras  bound 
in  light-speckled  sheepskin,  and  had  a  warm, 
portmanteau-like  odor.  The  modern  Mavor 
has  portraits  of  animals,  drawn  wTith  symmetry 
and  vigor  by  Mr.  Harrison  Weir;  the  old  book 
was  decorated  with  the  vilest  vignettes  that  sign- 
painter  turned  draughtsman  ever  imagined,  or 
wood-chopper  flourishing  long  before  Bewick  or 
Thurston  ever  hacked.  Strange  heraldic-looking 
animals — griffins,  unicorns,  roaring  bulls  of 
Bashan,  monsters  and  chimeras  dire — passed 
current  for  lions  and  tigers  and  the  domestic 
animals.  But  what  did  we  little  children  care,  so 
long  as  we  could  smear  the  coarse  cartoons  with 
blue  a.'id  red  and  yellow  ochre  \  And  was  the 
fable  of  the  Dog  and  the  Shadow  less  suggestive 
because  the  dog  was  not  in  the  least  like  his 
adumbrated  duplicate,  and  was  besides  as  big, 
according  to  the  scale  of  comparison,  as  the  ele- 
phant in  the  next  cut?  And  the  frontispiece, 
again ! 

The  new  Mavor  shows  a  pretty  tableaux  of 


62  BREAKFAST  IN   BED;   OR 

Home  ;  a  young  mother,  surrounded  by  a  chirp- 
ing little  brood  of  those  children  whom  Mr. 
Gilbert  draws  so  charmingly — little  girls  in  long 
curls  and  short  trousers,  cherub-faced  boys  in 
pretty  tunics.  They  are  hanging  over  the  spel- 
ling-book with  as  much  pleased  interest  in  their 
little  faces  as  though  Mavor  were  Baron  Mun- 
chausen. In  the  foreground  is  a  toy-horse  of 
the  regular  buff-coat  and  red-wafer  pattern.  Ah, 
dear  me,  dear  me !  the  old  Mavor  had  a  very 
different  kind  of  frontispiece.  Showed  it  not 
three  grim  compartments,  stages  or  floors ;  in 
the  uppermost  a  boy-class  of  shivering  little 
wretches,  ranged  before  the  desk  of  a  stern  usher, 
who  wore  his  hat  and  bore  a  cane  ? 

We  all  settled  that  this  was  an  usher;  for 
although  ferocious,  he  looked  poor.  There 
was  a  frigid  gloom  about  that  top-storey  pic- 
ture, at  once  suggestive  of  the  horrible  winter 
mornings  at  school,  the  lessons  before  breakfast, 
and  agonizing  incandescence  produced  in  numbed 
palms  by  "  spats "  of  the  cane.  The  middle 
compartment  represented  a  ladies'-school :  siwk 
a  Miss  Tickletoby  in  the  chair,  suck  a  Mrs. 
Teachem ! 


"  Come  here,  Master  Timothy  Todd— 

Before  we  have  done  you'll  look  grimmer ; 
You've  been  spelling  some  time  for  the  rod, 
But  I'll  have  you  to  know  I'm  a  Trimmer." 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  63 

I  am  sure  Thomas  Hood  must  have  had  the 
woodcut  portrait  of  this  terrible  old  dame  in 
his  mind's  eye  when  he  wrote  (and  illustrated) 
the  fancy  portrait  of  Mrs.  Trimmer  in  his 
"  Comic  Annual." 

It  may  be  that  I  have  been  mixing  up  the  pic- 
tures of  the  old  Mavor  with  those  of  the  old 
Dilworth.  At  all  events,  both  spelling-books 
had  strange  representations  of  boys  in  frills,  and 
coats  with  two-inch  tails,  of  schoolmistresses  in 
mob-caps,  and  pedagogues  in  long  dressing- 
gowns.  And  Dilworth  and  Mavor  were  both 
illustrated  with  "  cuts,"  while  intempestive  con- 
templation of  their  wood-blocks  brought  little 
boys  into  intimate  connection  with  another  block 
of  wood,  whence  the  engravings  are  struck  off 
in  red  ink.  I  do  not  wish  any  one  to  laugh  at 
these  forced  jests.  Let  them  shudder,  and  shut 
up  Mavor. 

But  why  did  I  ever  open  him  ?  What  have  I 
to  do  at  my  age  with  a  baby's  spelling-book  % 
A  great  deal,  I  think.  Mavor  is  an  admirable 
corrective  for  conceit.  A  cursory  reference  to 
his  pages  will  tell  many  a  scholar,  inflated  with 
the  big  books  he  has  been  studying,  a  great 
many  things  he  did  not  know  before.  I  declare 
that,  until  breakfast  time  this  morning,  I  did 
not  know — or  had  forgotten — that  cow's-horn  is 
"used  instead  of  glass  for  lanterns."      I  had 


64:  BREAKFAST   IX   BED  ;    OR, 

heard,  of  course,  of  horn  lanterns,  but  deemed 
them  to  be  obsolete.  Judge  of  my  astonish- 
ment to  find  them  fflimmerino:  in  the  Mavor  of 
1862! 

Again,  that  the  white  hair  of  goats  was  "  valu- 
able for  wigs."  Ignoramus  !  I  thought  that  bar- 
risters' wigs  were  made  of  horsehair,  and  the 
Lord  Mayor's  coachman's  jasey  of  spun-glass. 
"We  are  never  too  old  to  learn. 

The  which  confirms  me  in  my  estimate  of  the 
advantage  we  may  derive  from  occasionally  con- 
sulting in  mature  life  the  simplest  elementary 
works.  What  do  we  know  about  things,  after 
all  ?  I  should  like  to  get  this  exceedingly  wide- 
awake Bishop  Colenso  into  a  corner,  and  put 
him  through  a  course  of  Mavor,  and  Pinnock, 
and  Mangnall,  and  the  "  Guide  to  Knowledge." 
The  right  reverend  father  is  the  author  of  a  very 
good  book  on  arithmetic,  I  am  told ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  he  has  been  lately  bestowing  much 
attention  on  such  simple  problems  as  "  If  a  her- 
ring and  a  half  cost  three-halfpence,  how  many 
herrings  can  you  get  for  a  shilling  ?"  Propound 
this  to  me,  O  Colenso !  Do  you  know  what  ink 
is  made  of  ?  Can  you  tell  me  how  the  angles  of 
Westminster  Abbey  are  subtended  on  the  retina 
of  a  bull's-eye  ?  Do  you  know  anything  about 
the  manufacture  of  boot-varnish  ?  Can  you 
bite-in  a  copper-plate  ?     Do  you  know  who  in- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  65 

vented  braces  ?  Can  yon  inform  me  when  steel 
pens  were  first  used  ?  Can  yon  find  me  a  rhyme 
for  Hippopotamus?  Could  you  undertake  to 
supply  a  weekly  satirico-political  cartoon  for 
"  Punch  V  Can  you  define  what  human  wit  is  ? 
Do  you  know  (but  here  I  borrow  from  sturdy  old 
Paley)  how  oval  frames  are  turned  ? 

Go  away  Bishop  of  the  Black  Man!  Go 
to  your  Pinnock,  or  to  your  "  Punch  "  even  ;  for 
you  would  derive  more  wisdom  *  from  the  study 
of  that  periodical,  than  from  puzzling  your 
poor  brains  about  the  Pentateuch  !  Before  the 
doubts  of  a  Hume,  a  Gibbon,  a  Yolney,  a  Yol- 
taire,  a  Condorcet,  a  Mirabeau,  one  stands 
amazed,  aghast,  to  see  the  mighty  intellects  ob- 
scured by  clouds,  the  giants  ridden  by  the  incu- 
bus who  wears  a  cock's  feather  in  his  cap,  and 
in  a  shrill  fluted  voice  Denies,  Denies  for  ever. 
Before  the  perplexities  of  a  Pascal,  a  Hobbes,  a 
Gassendi,  one  stands  awed  and  hushed.  Nay, 
in  the  reckless  foaming  infidel,  his  hands 
clenched,  his  eyes  glaring,  his  hair  blown  about 
by  the  Eternal  Storm,  and  vociferating  his 
hoarse  "No!"  there  is  something  gigantic, 
though  appalling.  There  maybe  abandonment, 
but  there  may  be  rectitude.  The  martyrs  of 
unbelief  are  often  as  self-sacrificing  as  the  mar- 
tyrs of  faith.  But  for  this  small-beer  scepticism, 
this  Tom    Paineism    in    a  white    choker,  this 


66 


Straussology  adapted  to  small  tea-parties,  this 
genteel  free-thinking  for  family  reading — faugh  ! 
it  tastes  in  the  mouth  like  a  bad  groat. 

Off,  Dr.  C. !  Away,  Mr.  Wilkie  Collinso  !  I 
will  have  none  of  your  "  sensations  "  about  the 
Books  of  Moses.  And,  butler — my  butler  wears 
crinoline — H.  M.  and  B.  J.  are  coming  to  din- 
ner to-day,  and  we  will  have  a  bottle  of  the 
right  red  seal,  not  the  cheap  Cape  I  have 
bought  lest  Spungius  should  pop  in.  For  I  love 
not  South- African  port — nay,  nor  South-African 
theology. 

And  before  I  shut  up  my  Mavor,  there  is  a 
particular  class  in  society  to  which  I  desire  to 
commend  the  attentive  study  of  the  Spelling- 
book.  O  you  noble  captains,  you  brave  swells, 
you  honest,  jovial,  intrepid,  kind-hearted,  igno- 
rant young  officers  in  the  Heavies  and  in  the 
Prancers,  rush  off  to  your  booksellers  and  invest 
in  all  the  copies  of  the  spelling-books  that  re- 
main unsold.  Let  your  devotion  henceforth  be 
to  Mars,  Bacchus,  and  Apollo — but  don't  forget 
Mavor.  If  more  English  gentlemen  belonging 
to  the  military  patrician  class,  had  a  commonly 
decent  acquaintance  with  English  orthography, 
don't  you  think  that  we  should  have  fewer  "  bubble 
bets,"  that  the  Admiral  would  not  "  abhor  "  the 
Colonel  quite  so  often,  and  that  one's  Breakfast 
in  Bed  would  not  be  poisoned  by  the  "Turf 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  67 

scandals,"  of  which,  the  recapitulation  has  been 
lately  the  nuisance  and  disgrace  of  the  morning 
newspapers  ? 

Don't  think  that  I  wish  to  launch  into  a  vio- 
lent tirade  against  Colonel  Eawdon  Crawley,  or 
Captain  De  Boots,  or  Lieutenant  Guy  Living- 
stone. I  think  them  much  better  fellows  than 
Colonel  James,  or  Captain  Booth,  or  Lieutenant 
Lismahago.  Nay,  when  I  compare  them  with 
M.  ie  Chef  le  Bataillon  Fracasse  de  la  Tapagerie, 
or  M.  le  Capitaine  Gamelle  Boutenfeu,  I  strike 
the  balance  in  favor  of  the  English  officer,  and 
think  him  no  worse  soldier  for  being  a  gentle- 
man. But  he  should  learn  to  spell.  He  should, 
indeed.  Colonel  Rawdon  Crawley  should  be 
able  to  write  his  letters  without  the  aid  of  a 
"  Johnson's  Dictionary ;"  Captain  De  Boots 
should  be  cured  of  spelling  kept  "  kep,"  and 
Mediterranean  "  Meddytirainian." 

I  know  that  Lord  Malmesbury  doesn't  attach 
much  value  to  accurate  orthography ;  and  I  can 
guess  the  reason.  His  Lordship's  father  was 
that  same  learned  Mr.  Harris  who  wrote  the 
"  Hermes  " — alluded  to  at  the  commencement  of 
this  Paper — and  who  was  one  of  the  most  eru- 
dite philological  writers  of  whom  this  country 
can  boast.  Depend  upon  it,  that  the  noble  Lord 
had  quite  enough  spelling-book  cheer  in  his  youth 
to  last  him  for  a  lifetime ;  the  pastrycook's  boy 


68  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OR, 

doesn't  care  much  for  jam-tarts  ;  the  tailor's  son 
is  reluctant  to  assume  the  shears  and  French 
chalk  of  Mr.  Snip,  his  papa,  deceased.  But  Ma- 
yor is  not  to  be  banished  from  polite  society  be- 
cause Malraesbury  frowns. 

I  hope  that,  ere  very  long,  at  least  a  dozen 
Spelling-books  may  be  added  to  the  libraries  of 
the  Senior  and  Junior  United  Service,  the 
Guards,  and  the  Army  and  Navy  Clubs.  They 
need  not  entirely  supersede  the  study  of  the 
"  Eacing  Calendar,"  or  "  Buff's  Guide  to  the 
Turf ;"  but  they  may  be  instrumental  in  spread- 
ing a  mild  and  innocent  love  for  the  contempla- 
tion of  words  in  two  syllables,  and  eventually 
cause  "  Turf  scandals  " — if  the  Turf  must  be 
scandalous ;  a  quality  I  do  not  hold  to  be  at  all 
necessary  to  a  noble  and  manly  national  pur- 
suit— to  turn  on  some  other  topic  than  the  ortho- 
graphy of  Reindeer  as  against  Raindeer. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  69 


ON  THE  PBEYAILING  MADNESS. 

Fkom  all  that  I  can  see,  or  hear,  or  am  told, 
and  from  a  little,  perhaps,  that  I  feel,  I  am  in- 
clined to  apprehend  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
Madness  going  about  the  world  just  now.  If 
Sir  Baldwin  Leighton's  Night  Poaching  Act  is 
definitively  to  put  down  the  unlicensed  capture 
of  feathered  and  furry  game  (which  it  will  no 
more  do  than  it  will  enable  me  to  marry  my 
grandmother),  it  should  surely  have  contained  a 
clause  to  warrant  the  shutting  up,  under  the  cer- 
tificate of  two  physicians,  of  all  the  hares  next 
March  ;  for  if  they  catch  the  epidemic  which  is 
raging  among  humanity,  the  chances  are  that 
they  will  go  very  mad  indeed.  This  is  most  de- 
cidedly a  mad  world,  my  masters.  Don't  you 
think  the  Americans  have  gone  mad,  and  that  "  a 
dark  house  and  a  whip"  would  be  the  fittest 
treatment  for  the  delirium  which  has  driven  a 
mighty  nation  into  the  perpetration  of  political 
bankruptcy  ?  They  must  be  mad,  only  they  have 
duplicity  enough  not  to  howl  or  tear  their  flesh, 
or  scrabble  at  the  gate  (as  King  David  did  when 
he  feigned  madness),  until  they  have  withdrawn 


70  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  I    OR 


themselves  from  public  observation.  In  one  of 
Mr.  Dickens's  earlier  works  there  is  a  terrific  tale 
of  a  lunatic,  who  so  kept  the  secret  of  his  in- 
sanity for  very  many  years.  He  slew  his  wife, 
and  raved  finely  to  himself  when  alone  ;  but  as 
he  wore  a  white  neckcloth,  talked  about  the  wea- 
ther, and  lent  money  at  interest  in  polite  society, 
he  was  accounted  perfectly  sane ;  until,  as  ill 
luck  would  have  it,  it  occurred  to  him  to  brain 
his  brother-in-law  with  a  chair,  and  to  avow,  in 
a  succession  of  short  yelps,  that  he  was  raving 
mad ;  whereupon  his  relatives  had  out  a  commis- 
sion De  Lwnatico  against  him,  and  locked  him 
up,  incontinent.  It  is  a  dangerous  matter  to 
meddle  with  your  brother-in-law.  As  a  rule, 
your  father-in-law  is  merely  a  harmless  bore,  who 
borrows  money  from  you,  and  in  quiet  confi- 
dence imparts  to  his  friends  the  opinion  that  you 
never  were  quite  the  sort  of  fellow  for  his  Emily ; 
but  your  heau-frere  has  got  his  mothers  blood 
in  him  •  and  the  children  of  the  horseleech  are 
younger  and  stronger  than  their  parent.  I  knew 
a  man  of  rare  talent  once,  who  went  out  of  his 
mind ;  whereupon  quoth  a  cynical  friend  of  his  : 

"  What  a  confounded  fool  X must  be !     It's 

just  like  his  indiscretion  to  go  blurting  out  what 
nobody  wanted  to  know.  Tve  been  madder  than 
he  for  years  /  but  I  always  took  good  care  not  to 
let  anybody  know  it."     How  would  it  be  if  some 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  71 

sapient  physician   suddenly  discovered  that  all 
those  exterminating  patriots  in  America  yonder 
were  mad, — that  "  Uncle  Abe"  had  only  ninety- 
nine  cents  out  of  the  mental  dollar ;  that  there 
was  a  tile  off  Mr.  Seward ;  that  Mr.  Chase  was  a 
gone  'coon  ?     The  New  Orleans  Davoust-Haynau, 
Butler,   may   have   been   suffering,  throughout, 
from  cerebral  congestion  ;  and  the  wretch  M'lSTeil, 
at  the  time  of  the  Palmyra  massacres,  was,  per- 
chance,   quite   an   unaccountable   being.      You 
know  the  gist  of  Dr.  Forbes  "VYinslow's  teaching. 
The  people  at  home,  who  govern  me  by  making 
me  think  that  I  govern  them,  have  carefully  put 
away  Dr.  "W's.  big  book  ;  which,  if  *a  man  be  at 
all  nervous,  he  is  apt  to  consult  as  frequently  as 
though  it  were  a  kind  of  psychical  looking-glass. 
A  stumble  or  a  stutter,  inability  to  chip  your  egg 
in  the  proper  manner,  over  drowsiness  or  over 
wide-awakedness,  dimness  of  sight,  or  swimming 
in  the  head,  or  carillons  in  the  ears,  may  all  be 
so  many  symptoms  of  morbid  diseases  of  the 
brain  and  mind.     If  you  feel  any  one  of  these 
symptoms,  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  buy  a 
strait-waistcoat,  and  go  off  at  once  to  Dr.  Forbes 
"Winslow,  lest  worse  should  ensue.     This  is  the 
key-stone  of  the  "Winslowian  philosophy. 

But  what  would  the  learned  Doctor  think  of 
the  cerebral  condition  of  the  Distracted  States  ? 
Is  Dixie's  Land  a  whit  saner  than  Columbia? 


72 

One  ol  ray  newspapers  this  morning  tells  me 
that  the  dark  gentleman  who  had  formerly  the 
honor  of  driving  the  President  of  Secessia's  car- 
riage  is  just  now  in  England,  and  is  lecturing 
about  among  the  pious  folks  with  as  profitable 
results  to  himself,  I  hope,  as  those  hinted  at  by 
Mr.  George  Borrow  in  his  "Wild  Wales."  What 
says  Jefferson  Davis's  quondam  slave  of  his  mas- 
ter ?  Is  the  Confederate  Dictator  a  hero  to  his 
body-coachman  ?  The  ex- Jehu  declares  that  Jeff, 
"isn't  of  much  account."  When  things  go 
smoothly,  he  is  pleasant  and  placable  enough ; 
but  when  their  course  is  roughened,  he  storms 
and  goes  on  The  rampage  in  the  "  skeariest"  man- 
ner. I  dare  say  that  he  is  as  mad  as  all  the  rest 
of  the  world. 

When  his  Lordship  of  Dundreary  is  unable  to 
discern  the  drift  of  a  j:>articular  observation,  he 
forthwith  puts  down  the  speaker  as  a  lunatic. 
Why  should  not  his  Lordship  be  right— or  any 
other  "  fellah  ?"  I  dare  say  that  Mr.  Sothern  (if 
he  condescended  to  read  the  first  number  of 
"Breakfast  in  Bed")  thought  me  as  mad  as  a 
hatter  for  presuming  to  question  the  perfection 
of  his  impersonation.  For  my  part,  I  have  a 
firm  persuasion  of  the  lunacy  of  the  people  who 
grow  ecstatic  about  Dundreary,  or  who  sip  their 
grog  while  the  great  Olmar*,  or  the  greater 
Leotard,  or  the  greatest  Blondin  may  be  capering 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  73 

over  their  heads,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  tumb- 
ling down  and  smashing  the  skulls  both  of  spec- 
tators and  acrobats.  I  think  that  to  take  Druiy 
Lane  Theatre — if  you  have  any  money  to  lose — 
is  a  sign  of  mental  alienation  so  decided,  that  the 
mere  act  of  signing  the  agreement  should  be  a 
full  warrant  for  the  friends  of  the  manager  tak- 
ing care  of  him.  I  think  half  the  people  who 
are  quaking  with  terror  through  fear  of  garotters, 
and  cutting  their  trembling  fingers  with  the 
bowie-knives  they  don't  know  how  to  handle — I 
speak  with  authority  in  this  matter,  for  I  have 
been  garotted,  and  it  didn't  hurt  me — are  mad. 

I  am  sure  the  garotters  are  mad  ;  poor,  pur- 
blind, darkened,  demented  creatures,  running 
their  heads  against  Newgate  granite  walls  as  a 
bull  runs  at  a  gate.  I  don't  think  that  Sir 
Joshua  Jebb  is  quite  right  in  his  mind  when  he 
countersigns  a  ticket-of-leave  ;  and  I  have  little 
doubt  but  that  if  a  commission  sat  upon  Sir 
"Walter  Crofton,  they  would  discover  that  he  was 
subject  to  delusions.  The  question  is,  I  take  it, 
less  to  find  out  who  is  mad  than  who  isn't  mad. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  there  is  not  a  screw 
loose  in  the  brainpan  of  those  Greeks  who  are 
persisting  in  electing  the  candidate  who  won't 
stand,  and  in  carting  about,  on  the  top  of  an  om- 
nibus, as  though  it  were  the  Golden  Calf  or  an 
image  of  Juggernaut,  the  portrait  of  a  Youno- 

4 


74  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OK, 

Middy  of  whom  they  know  nothing  ?  And  that 
fine  old  Tory,  the  King  of  Prussia  ! 

When  the  drill-sergeant  monarch  makes  a 
speech  to  a  loyal  deputation  from  Kalbsfleisch- 
stein  on  the  necessity  of  governing  "  outside  the 
constitution,"  don't  yon  think  him  as  crazy  as 
his  ancestor  who  used  to  cane  his  so$  Fritz  and 
throw  plates  and  dishes  at  his  daughter  Wilhel- 
mina  ;  or  as  his  brother  deceased,  who  was  wont 
to  wash  his  poor  wandering  head  in  Yermicelli 
soup  ?  And  the  illustrious  historian  of  the  Ho- 
henzollerns  !  Is  all  quite  right  at  Chelsea,  think 
yon,  when  Great  Tom  booms  forth  peals  of  praise 
over  tyranny  and  brutality,  and  makes  a  demi- 
god of  the  beery  and  brutal  old  bludgeon-man 
and  crockery-breaker,  with  his  Tab aks- Collegium, 
and  other  tomfooleries  ? 

When^Lady  Caroline  Lamb  (herself  as  de- 
mented as  Madge  Wildfire)  first  met  Lord 
Byron,  she  made  this  entry  against  his  name  in 
her  diary :  "  Mad,  bad,  and  dangerous  to  know." 
Lady  Morgan,  who  tells  the  story,  and  whose 
bald  and  frivolous  tittle-tattle  has  just  been  pub- 
lished under  the  auspices  of  Mr.  Hep  worth 
Dixon  as  an  "  Autobiography  " — shade  of  "  P.P., 
clerk  of  this  parish,"  has  it  come  to  this  ? — was 
mad  with  vanity  and  Radical  politics. 

A  mad  generation  will  eagerly  read  all  the 
antiquated  gossip  and  scanmag  of  Dublin  Castle 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  75 

during  the  mad  viceroyalty  of  the  Duke  of 
Richmond  (who  is  said  to  have  knighted  a  link- 
man  between  claret  and  coffee  one  night),  and 
will  chuckle  over  the  eccentricities  of  the  epoch 
when  the  ladies  of  the  Irish  Court — titled  ladies 
— used  to  play  at  the  pastoral  game  of  "  Cutcha- 
kachoo,"  which  consisted  in  squatting  down  on 
the  carpet  with  your  hands  clasped  underneath 
your  hams,  and  changing  places  with  your 
partner  as  rapidly  as  was  possible  in  that  abnor- 
mal position.  And  Prince  Puckler  Muskau, 
whom  Lady  Morgan's  friends  used  to  call  Prince 
Pickle  Mustard,  and  who,  being  desirous  of 
attending  a  banquet  of  the  "  Friends  of  Free- 
dom," wanted  to  know  if  the  health  of  his  High 
Dutchship  would  be  proposed,  and  if  his  right 
to  precedence  as  an  "  Altezza,"  or  Highness, 
would  be  recognized — what  are  we  to  think  of 
him  %  The  Friends  of  Freedom  didn't  want  the 
"  Altezza "  at  their  dinner  under  any  circum- 
stances, and  Sir  Charles  Morgan  told  him  so  ; 
whereupon  my  lady  fell  into  an  -agony  of  alarm 
lest  the  Prince  should  insist  on  fighting  a  duel 
with  her  husband. 

All  the  people  in  Lady  Morgan's  book  (which 
will  be  forgotton  the  day  after  to-morrow)  seem 
to  be  more  or  less  bereft  of  their  senses — from 
good-natured  old  Lady  Cork,  who  used  to  pilfer 
small  articles  from  the  shop-counters  where  she 


BEEAKFAST   IX   BED:    OR 


dealt — of  whom  I  have  read,  but  not  in  this^ 
"  Autobiography  " — to  John  Kernble  the  tra- 
gedian, who  once  meeting  the  "  wild  Irish  girl," 
(afterwards  Sidney  Lady  Morgan")  at  an  evening- 
party,  twined  his  fingers  in  her  curly  black 
locks,  and  said,  in  a  voice  husky  with  port-wine: 
"  Little  girl,  where  did  you  get  your  wig  from  V 
Stay,  there  is  one  personage  in  the  "Auto- 
biography "  who  really  seems  to  have  possessed 
some  sense.  He  was  a  poet,  and  bored  the 
authoress  of  "  The  Book  of  the  Boudoir  "  to  get 
some  of  his  effusions  published ;  and  on  her 
civilly  declining  to  do  so,  wrote  a  second  letter 
back,  to  say  that  he  was  also  a  practical  boot 
and  shoe  maker,  and  that  he  would  be  very 
grateful  to  my  Lady  if  she  would  use  her  influ- 
ence with  Sir  Charles  Morgan  to  get  him  an 
order  for  a  pair  of  boots. 

"  St.  Hierom,"  says  Burton,  "  out  of  a  strong 
imagination,  conceived  within  himself  that  he 
then  saw  them  dancing  in  Rome ;  and  if  thou 
shalt  either  conceive  or  climb  up  to  see,  thou 
shalt  soon  perceive  that  all  the  world  is  mad  ; 
that  it  is  melancholy,  dozes ;  that  it  is  (which 
Epichthonius  Cosmopolites  expressed  not  many 
years  since  in  a  map)  made  like  a  fool's  head 
(with  that  motto,  Caput  hellebore*  dignum),  a 
crazed  head ;  cavea  stultorum,  a  fool's  para- 
dise;  or,  as   Apollonius,  a  common   prison  of 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  77 

gulls,  cheaters,  flatterers,  etc.,  and  needs  to  be 
reformed."  This  is  a  nice  perspective.  "  For 
who,  indeed,"  pursues  this  agreeable  moralist, 
"is  not  a  fool,  melancholy,  mad?  Who  is  not 
brain-sick?  Folly,  Melancholy,  Madness,  are 
but  one  disease."  Indeed !  "  Delirium  is  a 
common  name  to  all.  Alexander,  Gordonius, 
Jason,  Pratensis,  Guianerius,  Montaltus  (Con- 
jiaissez-vous  ces  gens-la  f),  confound  them  as 
differing  magis  et  minus ;  so  doth  David  (Psalm 
xxvii.  5) ;  and  'twas  an  old  Stoical  paradox, 
omnes  stultos  insanire — all  fools  are  mad,  though 
some  madder  than  others.  Who  is  not  a  fool, 
or  free  from  Melancholia  ?"  Answer,  O  Hypo- 
chondriac, Breakfast  in  Bed !  "  Who  is  not 
touched  more  or  less  in  habit  or  disposition? 
What  is  sickness,  as  Gregory  Tholosanus  defines 
it "  (I  wish  he  lived  in  Saville  Row,  and  would 
give  me  an  audience  between  10  and  1  a.m.), 
u  but  a  dissolution  or  perturbation  of  the  bodily 
league  which  health  combines  ?"  As  for  the 
philosophers,  they  are  all,  according  to  the  ana- 
tomist, as  mad  as  the  illiterate.  Lactantius,  in 
his  Book  of  Wisdom  (can  I  get  it  at  Mudie's  ?), 
proves  them  to  be  dizzards,  fools,  and  madmen, 
so  full  of  absurd  and  ridiculous  tenets  and  brain- 
sick positions  (in  their  critiques  on  the  Penta- 
teuch and  elsewhere),  that  to  his  thinking,  never 
any  old  woman  or   sick  person  doted  worse. 


78  BREAKFAST   EN"  BED  ;   OR, 

Democritus  took  all  from  Leucippus,  and  left, 
saith  he,  the  inheritance  of  his  folly  to  Epicurus ; 
which,  all  spiteful  as  it  was,  was  never  so  mad  a 
bequest  as  that  of  old  Mr.  Hartley  of  Southamp- 
ton, who  left  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  to 
build  a  house  for  a  collection  of  air-pumps  and 
old  bones  ;  and*  out  of  which  bequest  the  lawyers 
have  carefully  clutched  forty  thousand  pounds 
for  costs  of  litigation.  Plato,  Aristippus,  and 
the  rest  were  (according  to  Lactantius)  all  idiots ; 
and  there  was  no  difference  between  them  and 
beasts,  save  that  they  could  speak.  Theodoret 
evinces  the  same  of  Socrates.  Aristophanes  calls 
him  ambitious;  his  master,  Aristotle,  scurra 
atticus  •  Zeno,  an  enemy  to  all  arts  and  sciences ; 
Athenius,  an  opinionative  ass,  a  cavalier,  and 
pedant ;  Theod.  Cyrensis,  an  atheist  and  pot- 
companion,  and  a  very  madman  in  his  actions. 
Bravo,  Lactantius!  But,  dear  me,  haven't  I 
been  aware  of  Lactantius  in  modern  London? 
Surely  he  must  be  the  man  who  edits  the  "  Cads' 
Chronicle." 

If  you  desire  to  hear  more  about  Apollonius,  a 
great  wise  man,  and  Julian  the  Apostate's  model 
author,  I  refer  you  to  the  learned  tract  of  Ense- 
bius  against  Hierocles.  /  never  read  it,  but 
Iiircius  knows  it  by  heart.  You  will  find  therein 
that  the  actions  of  the  philosophers  were  prodi- 
gious, absurd,  ridiculous,  and  their  books  and 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS  79 

elaborate  treatises  full  of  dotage ;  that  their  lives 
were  opposite  to  their  words ;  that  they  com- 
mended poverty  in  others,  and  were  most  greedy 
and  covetous  themselves  ;  that  they  extolled  love 
and  peace,  and  yet  persecuted  one  another  with 
virulent  hate  and  malice.  But  enough  of  this 
histoire  de  tout  le  monde.  If  I  continue,  it  will 
be  thought  that  I  am  attempting  an  essay  on  the 
History  of  Civilization. 

It  is  by  this  time,  I  hope,  satisfactorily  settled 
that  you,  I,  and  the  majority  of  mankind  are 
cracked.  A  famous  physician  has  not  hesitated 
to  propound  such  a  theory  in  a  public  court  of 
justice  ;  and  are  we,  poor  ignorant  laymen,  to  set 
ourselves  against  the  Royal  College  of  Pall  Mall 
East  ?  Were  we  not  all  edified  the  other  day 
when  the  poor,  meek,  placable,  ill-used,  long- 
suffering  wife  of  a  desperate  crockery-dealer  in 
Tottenham  Court  Road — a  "  dangerous  lunatic," 
whose  horrible  hallucinations,  springing  from 
u  drink  and  gay  company,"  ending  in  his  daring 
to  protest  against  the  unhappy,  persecuted  crea- 
ture, who  had  been  his  wedded  (and  outraged) 
wife  for  eight-and-twenty  years,  indulging  in  such 
harmless  eccentricities  as  running  up  scores  with 
tallymen,  pawning  his  pots  and  pans,  bringing 
crowds  round  his  shop,  and  heaping  mountains 
of  Billingsgate  on  his  head — were  we  not  all 
profoundly  struck  with  the  perspicuity  of  the 


80  BKEAKFAST   IN   BED;    OK, 

Law  of  Lunacy,  and  the  ample  guarantees  afforded 
by  the  Constitution  for  the  liberty  of  the  subject, 
when  poor  Mrs.  Crockery  got,  by  a  process  as 
easy  as  lying,  a  medical  certificate,  empowering 
*her  to  lock  up  her  wicked,  wicked  husband 
(crazed  by  drink  and  gay  company)  in  a  mad- 
house ?  It  is  true  that  an  obtuse  jury,  misled  by  the 
Jesuitical  oratory  of  Mr.  Montague  Chambers,  and 
the  illogical  summing-up  of  an  incompetent  judge 
(who  ever  heard  before  of  this  Alexander  James 
Cockburn,  Lord  Chief  Justice  of  England  ?)  came 
subsequently  to  the  conclusion  that  the  naughty 
crockery-dealer  wasn't  mad  ;  that  his  wife  hadn't 
any  right  to  lock  him  up ;  and  that  the  medical 
gentleman  had  made  rather  a  blunder  in  certify- 
ing to  his  insanity  ;  but  what  was  that  manifestly 
erroneous  verdict,  or  even  the  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  damages  which  accompanied  it,  compared 
with  the  public  revelation  of  the  great  principle, 
that  a  lady  who  does  not  love  her  lord  may,  after 
twenty-eight  years  of  married  life,  pop  him  into 
a  strait-jacket,  and  have  him  clapped  up  in  Bed- 
lam ?  No  ;  not  in  Bedlam.  I  retract.  In  that 
admirable  and  mercifully-conducted  Institution, 
honorable  alike  to  the  Corporation  of  London 
and  to  the  wise  and  good  physicians  who  watch 
over  its  unhappy  inmates  (one  good  man  and 
true,  Dr.  Charles  Hood,  has  just  been  succeeded 
by  another  as  true   and  as  good,  Dr.  Helps),  a 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  81 

case  such  as  that  of  the  crockery-dealer's  would 
be  impossible.  There  is  but  one  man  in  the 
lunatic  wards  of  Bedlam  who  is  sane  (E.  O.,  pot- 
boy, 18-10),  and  he  must  needs  lie  in  hold  during 
"her  Majesty's  pleasure;"  for  has  he  not  com- 
mitted the  unpardonable  sin  on  earth  ? 

So  long  as  there  are  physicians  simple  enough 
to  be  galled  by  the  tales  of  untamable  shrews, 
or  careless  enough  to  grant  certificates  of  insanity 
without  proper  inquiry,  so  long  our  better  halves 
will  have  a  terrible  weapon  in  their  hands.  This 
awful  power,  which  is  to  be  exercised  apparently 
by  those  who  have  the  longest  tongues  and  the 
greatest  faculty  for  plausible  representation, 
should  serve  to  keep  us  men-folks  in  order. 
"  Take  heed  of  the  axe,"  cried  King  Charles  on 
the  scaffold,  when  a  gobemouche  was  sillily  hand- 
ling the  instrument  of  death.  Take  heed  of  the 
mufflers  and  the  padded  room,  O  you  Bluebeard 
husbands.  Not  only  "  drink  and  gay  company," 
but  bad  temper,  bad  language,  tearing  down 
wall-paper,  objecting  to  doctors  prying  about  the 
house,  may  all  be  construed  into  symptoms  of 
raging  madness.  I  intend  to  be  very  careful,  in 
future,  as  to  the  criticisms  I  pass  upon  the  com- 
ponent parts  of  my  Breakfast  in  Bed.  Not  a 
word  about  the  eggs,  about  the  musty,  musty 
bacon,  about  the  weakness  of  the  tea,  the  leatheri- 
ness  of  the  toast,  the  absolute  absence  of  the 

4* 


82  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  ;   OR, 

muffins  !  No  ebullitions  of  passion  at  the  tardy 
response  to  the  often-tugged  bell ;  no  raging  or 
roaring  because  the  newspapers  have  not  arrived ! 
In  olden  time,  a  birchen  rod  was  hung  up  in  the 
best-regulated  nurseries,  to  frighten  the  little 
masters  and  misses  into  propriety.  In  imagina- 
tion, now,  a  strait-waistcoat  occupies  the  place  on 
the  wall  opposite  my  pillow,  erst  filled  by  the 
martyrology ;  and  once  a  week,  when  I  open  my 
"  Punch,"  I  expect  to  find  that  Mr.  Shirley  Brooks 
has  made  an  end  of  all  the  bickerings  of  the 
Naggletons  by  the  deportation  of  Mr.  Naggleton 
to  Munster  House,  at  the  requisition  of  Mrs.  IS"., 
backed  by  a  certificate  from  Peter  Grievous. 
"What  delightful  domestic  dialogues  are  those 
which  take  place  between  the  Naggletons  !  How 
infinitely  superior  to  "  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lec- 
tures !"  Douglas  Jerrold  (a  sadly  over-rated  man, 
my  love)  had  no  knowledge  of  the  world,  no  wit, 
no  humor,  no  insight  into  character,  no  loving 
tenderness  for  the  foibles  of  humanity.  In  the 
"  Caudle  Lectures  "  he  could  only  show  us  a  vul- 
gar, quick-tempered,  aggravating,  but  thoroughly 
good-hearted  woman,  who  scolded  her  husband 
frequently,  but  loved  him  clearly.  Caudle  and 
his  wife  used  to  wrangle  and  make  it  up  again ; 
and,  as  times  go,  I  dare  say  were  as  happy  a 
couple  as  could  be  found  between  Camberwell 
and  Chelsea 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  83 

But  a  new  prophet  has  arisen.  A  marvellous 
painter  of  manners  comes  forward  to  show  us  a 
sarcastic,  sullen  man,  half-hyena,  half-bear,  caged 
with  a  tigress  of  a  woman.  They  abuse  one 
another,  they  bandy  cruel  epithets,  they  hate 
each  other  ;  and  I  have  little  doubt  that,  but  for 
the  commendable  reticence  of  the  narrator,  we 
could  be  informed  that  Mrs.  Naggleton  throws 
knives  at  Mr.  Eaggleton,  and  that  Mr.  E".  boxes 
Mrs.  IST.'s  ears. 

This  is  charming.  I  like  to  read  "  The  haggle- 
tons  "  in  bed.  Their  dialogues  add  a  zest  to  my 
bread  and  butter.  I  call  them  Mustard  and 
Cresswell.  I  had  yet  to  learn  that  the  lives  led 
by  the  affluent  middle-classes  in  England 
were  of  a  nature  akin  to  those  which  one 
might  suppose  to  be  led  by  the  Devils  of  the 
Pit ;  nagging,  nagging,  jeering,  and  snarling  for 
ever  and  ever.  I  am  thankful  that  I  don't 
belong  to  the  affluent  middle-classes,  but  to  the 
"lower  middle  ones*;"  and  I  am  pretty  well,  I 
thank  you. 

Of  course  the  Naggletons  are  mad — as  clearly 
off  their  heads  as  that  poor  ambassador  who,  the 
other  night,  at  Rome,  walked  in  his  night-gown 
into  a  dining-room  full  of  royal  and  noble  com- 
pany, demanded  in  tones  of  fury  to  know  what 
the  Prince  and  Princesses  were  doing  there,  and 
ordered  them  to  decamp. 


84  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OR, 

By  the  way,  didn't  John  Hunter,  the  famous 
surgeon,  once  do  something  of  the  same  kind  ? 
Didn't  he  come  home  weary  and  faint  from  dis- 
secting or  lecturing,  and  find  that  his  wife 
had  convened  a  large  company  for  a  "  quiet 
evening  and  a  little  music;"  whereat  cried 
honest  John,  "  Turn  all  these  catamarans  out 
of  the  house,  and  bring  me  my  night-gown  and 
slippers !" 

Imagine  how  the  Yolscians  were  fluttered; 
how  the  scrapers  and  tinklers  levanted ;  how 
spinet,  harpsichord,  theorbo,  and  viol  di  gamba 
were  hushed  ;  how  the  "  catamarans  "  retreated, 
darting  withering  looks  at  this  uncivil  old  saw- 
bones. "  A  brute  of  a  husband,"  was  this  most 
humane,  enlightened,  and  upright»man  most  pro- 
bably pronounced ;  and  I  only  wonder  that  Mrs. 
Hunter  didn't  have  him  seized  on  the  spot  for  a 
maniac.     For  he  was  mad,  of  course. 

Thus,  then,  having  arrived  at  this  comfortable 
conclusion,  I  lay  down  the  newspapers  edited 
by  mad  journalists,  and  ere  I  ring  the  bell  for 
Crazy  Jane  the  servant  to  bring  up  hot  water — 
the  mad  barber  who  is  to  shave  my  head  isn't 
come  yet — I  ponder  in  my  darkened  mind  as  to 
who  the  sane  people  on  this  harum-scarum  ball 
may  be. 

Do  your  duty  in  your  state  of  life,  work  hard, 
live  temperately,  fare  coarsely,  give  of  your  store 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  85 

to  the  poor,  fear  God,  honor  the  Queen,  and 
train  up  your  children  in  the  way. they  should 
go  ;  and  Dr.  A.  may  want  to  feel  your  pulse  and 
inspect  your  tongue ;  Dr.  B.  tap  his  forehead, 
and,  looking  at  you,  murmur,  "  Something 
wrong  there  ;"  Dr.  C.  ask  you  how  many  legs  a 
sheep  has ;  and  Dr.  D.  consign  you,  by  certifi- 
cate, to  a  madhouse. 

The  only  way  in  which  I  can  discern  the  pos- 
sibility of  establishing  sanity  is  to  be  a  dullard 
and  a  fool.  Then,  all  the  doctors  will  swear 
that  you  are  not  only  in  your  senses,  but  a  very 
wise  man ;  and  you  may  hope  in  time  to  be 
made  a  K.G.,  or  Governor-General  of  the  For- 
tunate Islands.  Who  knows  what  eminence  we 
may  be  hoisted  to  by  the  time  we  begin  to 
drivel  ? 

My  people  won't  let  me  read  Dr.  Forbes 
"Winslow's  big  book ;  but  I  got,  long  ago,  the 
opening  paragraph  by  heart,  and  they  cannot 
rob  me  of  that.  'Tis  a  quintette  of  wise  apho- 
risms by  Hippocrates,  in  Greek — I  forbear  to 
quote  the  Attic,  in  mercy  to  the  compositors  and 
the  critics — and  runs  thus :  "  Life  is  short ;  Art, 
long;  the  Occasion  fleeting;  Experience  falla- 
cious ;  Judgment  difficult."  From  which  I  per- 
pend: young  Mr.  "Wyndham,  George  Francis 
Train,  Captain  Atcherly,  Mrs.  Cottle,  Monsieur 
Veuillot,  and  Billy  Barlow,  are   all  sane;   but 


86  BBEAKFAST   IN   BED  J    OR, 

Joseph  Garibaldi,  Michael  Faraday,  John  Stuart 
Mill,  and  Victor  Hugo,  are  as  mad  as  the  Man 
in  the  Moon ; — and  we  don't  know  anything  at 
all  about  it. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  87 


ON  THINGS  GOING,  GOING— GONE ! 

What  will  they  pull  down,  root  np,  cut 
through,  or  trample  upon  next?  I  asked  myself 
yesterday,  throwing  down  the  newspaper  on  the 
counterpane.  It  isn't  alone  our  old  institutions. 
They  have  gone  by  the  board  long  ago,  of 
course.  It  isn't  alone  the  framework  of  society 
or  the  guarantees  of  morality.  Of  course,  they 
have  all  disappeared  since  the  Reform  Bill  was 
passed,  and  the  Eleventh  of  George  the  Second 
enacted  that  law-pleadings  were  to  be  drawn  no 
more  in  Latin,  and  the  Test  and  Corporation 
Acts  were  abolished.  But  the  terrible  thing  is 
in  this  pulling  down  London  about  our  ears. 
Here  am  I,  tranquilly  Breakfasting  in  Bed  this 
morning;  but  how  do  I  know  but  that  the 
ground-landlord  is  not  Imnererins:  to  make  a 
tabula  rasa  of  a  quiet  street  of  Russell  Square, 
and  build  a  row  of  staring  shops  or  bran  new 
banking-houses  in  lieu  of  the  present  row  of 
dingy  middle-class  mansions,  in  one  of  which  a 
discontented  scribbler,  with  a  deranged  liver,  is 
gnawing  dry  toast  in  bed?  Up  and  down  the 
weary  columns  of  the  paper  do  mine  eyes  travel, 


8£  BREAKFAST  IN   BED;   OB, 

and  their  way  is  through  a  desert  of  demoli- 
tions with  scarcely  an  oasis  of  stability.  Un- 
derground Railway,  forsooth !  Thames  Embank- 
ment, quotha  !  Main  Drainage,  save  the  mark! 
Strand  Hotel,  Adelphi  Hotel,  Charing- Cross 
Hotel — hotels  everywhere  and  anywhere,  and  a 
murrain  to  them  !  New  streets  built,  old  streets 
swept  away.  Where  are  we  all  going  to  ?  "Why 
can't  they  leave  things  as  they  are  ? 

To  keep  "  things  as  they  are  "  is  understood 
to  be  one  of  the  chief  maxims  of  tllat  great 
Conservative  reaction  popular  among  that  very 
numerous  class  who,  having  got  on  in  the  world 
and  made  their  fortunes  by  repeated  changes 
and  innovations,  are  anxious  for  an  era  of  immu- 
table rest,  in  order  that  they  may  keep  what 
they  have  acquired.  I  don't  wonder  at  the  kind 
of  contemptuous  pity  with  which  politicians 
speak  of  "an  ancient  Whig."  Is  there  not, 
indeed,  something  very  nearly  approaching 
senility  in  professing  Liberal  opinions  when  you 
have  gotten  your  desire — a  title,  a  gold  stick,  a 
commissionership  of  excise,  a  county-court  judge- 
ship, or  something  else  nice  and  comfortable, 
worth  a  thousand  a  year  and  upwards?  Radi- 
calism, Liberalism,  are  all  very  well  to  chalk 
your  shoes  with  as  you  climb  up  the  rungs  of  the 
ladder ;  but,  the  top  one  attained,  there  is  nothing 
like  a  boot  of  good  strong  Conservative  leather 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  89 

to  kick  the  ladder  and  the  people  clinging  to  it 
down,  withal. 

Next  to  keeping  things  as  they  are,  the  favor- 
ite doctrine  of  your  genuine  true-blue  Reaction- 
ists is,  to  restore  "  things  as  they  used  to  he." 
I  declare  that  it  is  quite  refreshing  to  watch 
the  phases  of  the  mania  for  restoration  :  from 
illuminating,  to  "the  old  art  of  tatting ;"  from 
the  hoop-petticoats  of  1745,  and  the 'round  hats 
of  1813,  to  stained-glass  windows  and  old  Saxon 
fonts  and  columniated  pulpits,  irreverently 
called  "parson  coolers."  Let  us  patch  up  the 
old  churches,  chapter-houses,  guest-halls,  and 
rood-screens,  by  all  means.  There  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun  ;  and  it  may  be,  "  things  as 
they  used  to  was"  are  infinitely  preferable  to 
things  as  they  are.  We  have  gone  back  to  Hes- 
sian boots.  Why  shouldn't  we  revert  to  cocked 
hats  and  pigtails  ? 

The  English  language,  as  .  at  present  written, 
or,  as  the  Danish  journalist  lately  described  it, 
"  the  rich  and  sweet  and  mighty  largely  latinized 
Scandinavian  dialect,"  is  denounced  by  sapient 
critics  as  a  mass  of  affectations  and  euphemisms. 

Let  us  return,  O  my  literary  brethren,  to  the 
"  sounding  Saxon"  of  our  ancestors,  as  written 
by  Sir  John  Cheke  in  his  version  of  St.  Matthew's 
Gospel,  or  talk  Norse  with  Dr.  Dasent.  Restore 
the  old ;  scoff  at  the  new.     Stare  jper  antiquas 


90  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OK, 

mas  should  be  our  motto.  Old  clothes  are  the 
only  wear.  I  hear  that  old  Madeira  is  much 
asked  for ;  only,  as  the  wine  in  question  has  be- 
come almost  as  rare  as  a  black  tulip  or  a  blue 
diamond,  the  cunning  wine-merchants  are  com- 
pelled to  minister  to  the  public  demand  for  an- 
tiquity by  fabricating  old  Madeira  from  ]STew 
South  African. 

Pray  mark  how  eagerly  the  newspapers  give 
insertion  to  the  arguments  put  forward  by  the 
advocates  for  the  line  old  methods  of  treating 
criminals.  Hurrah  for  the  jolly  old  gallows,  the 
fine  old  cat-o'-nine-tails,  and  the  noble  pillory, 
the  stocks,  the  ducking-stool,  and  the  jougs  !  I 
yet  live  in  hopes  to  see  a  garotter  flogged  at  the 
cart's- tail  from  Langham  Place  to  the  Duke  of 
York's  Column. 

I  have  a  friend  who  wants  all  the  ticket-of- 
leave  men  hanged.  "Why  not  ? — why  not  break 
them  on  the  wheel,  burn,  or  fry,  or  flay  them 
alive  ?  They  used  to  do  so  in  the  good  old  times. 
And  what  a  pestilent,  meddling,  prying  Radical 
of  a  fellow  was  that  Jack  Howard — a  plague  on 
all  philanthropists,  say  I — who  found  out  that  if 
felons'  gaols  were  not  made  clean  and  airy  and 
wholesom£,  and  if  that  terrible  doom,  depriva- 
tion of  the  liberty  of  going  whither  a  man  wills, 
were  not  compensated  for  by  wholesome  and  regu- 
lar food,  prisons  would  become  the  filthiest  of 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  91 

Augean  stables,  with  fine  old  fevers  and  agues 
careering  about,  for  the  benefit  of  so  many  wild 
beasts  and  so  many  maniacs. 

The  worst  of  the  matter  is,  that  with  all  your 
mending,  restoring,  and  preserving  labors,  things 
won't  keep  as  they  are,  and  obstinately  refuse  to 
return  to  that  which  they  used  to  be.  'Tis  like 
an  old  hat  that  has  been  "molokered,"  or  ironed 
and  greased  into  a  simulacrum  of  its  pristine 
freshness ;  or  an  old  coat  that  has  been  black- 
and-blue  revivered.  For  a  day  or  two  all  is 
well,  and  the  daw  may  strut  about  in  his  pea- 
cock's feathers,  the  envy  of  the  entire  farm-yard  ; 
but  the  first  shower  of  rain  washes  off  the  ficti- 
tious gloss,  and  scrubs  the  whitening  off  the  se- 
pulchre, and  exposes  all  the  senility  and  shabbi- 
ness  of  the  sham. 

You  may  bring  the  corpse  of  Antiquity  to 
Surgeons'  Hall,  and  galvanize  its  stark  limbs  into 
a  hideous  semblance  of  vitality ;  but  the  spark 
once  fled,  not  all  the  Ley  den  jars  in  the  world 
shall  make  that  mass  of  dead  dough  sentient. 
Better  macerate  the  flesh  from  off  the  bones,  and 
hang  up  the  skeleton  in  a  museum,  ere  it  crum- 
bles into  the  dust  from  which  it  came.  You  see 
that,  in  a  lofty  rostrum,  high  up  above  us  all, 
and  our  miserable  sphere  of  power,  there  is  a 
certain  Great  Auctioneer,  who  uses  now  his 
scythe,  and  now  his  hour-glass,  for  a  hammer; 


92  BREAKFAST    IN   BED  \    OR, 

and  he. — whose  name  is  Time — brings  all  things 
human  to  public  Konp,  and  sells  them  by  inch 
of  corpse-candle.  For  ever  does  he  from  his 
clattering  jaw  cry,  "Going,  going — gone!" 

"  Going,  going !" — put  money  in  thy  purse, — 
tick  your  catalogue  with  pencil-marks, — bid  with 
wild  haste, — fee  agents  and  brokers, — catch  the 
auctioneer's  eye  till  it  coruscates  with  nods  and 
winks,  when — thump  ! — clown  goes  the  hammer 
on  the  pulpit-ledge,  and  you  find  that  the  thing 
for  which  your  desire  lay  and  your  soul  was 
adrought  is  gone  for  ever.  Gone  whither,  it  is 
bootless,  now,  to  inquire. 

I  hold  it  for  certain  that  few  persons  ever  went 
to  a  sale  to  buy  a  certain  thing,  and  were  per- 
mitted to  purchase  precisely  the  article  they 
longed  for.  Something  is  knocked  down  to  them, 
— and  dear  is  the  price  it  has  been  run  up  to — 
but  it  is  not  the  particular  object.  And  so  it  is 
always.  You  get  a  wife,  but  not  the  wife.  You 
are  made  Chief- Justice  at  Timbuctoo,  not  Attor- 
ney-General at  the  Cameroons ;  and  it  is  all  one 
in  the  end. 

"  Going,  going — gone !"  London  is  going  even 
while  I  pen  these  lines — going  in  despite  of  topo- 
graphical Conservatives  who  wish  to  keep  things 
as  they  are,  and  archaeological  revivalists  who 
strive  to  resuscitate  things  as  they  used  to  be. 

"Westminster  Hall  is  itself,   and    more  than 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE   SHEET8.  93 

itself  again ;  and  William  Kufus  might  wag  his 
shock  red  head  with  joy  to  look  upon  its  won- 
drous roof,  brave  painted  window,  noble  dais, 
and  towering  brass  candelabra  ;  St.-  Stephen's  has 
cloisters  once  more,  and,  underground,  its  crypt 
has  been  cleared  out;  all  over  the  metropolis  we 
hear  of  churches  being  restored,  Lady-chapels 
revivified,  and  palaces  renovated. 

The  reverse  to  this  flattering  medal  is  in  the 
pig-headed  determination  evinced  in  some  quar- 
ters to  keep  the  bad  old  things— the  filthy  streets, 
the  bulging  rotten  tenements,  the  haunts  of  fel- 
ons and  vagrants,  the  abominable  old  nuisances 
and  obstructions — as  they  are.  Eight  years  ago 
I  strove  hard,  in  a  journal  called  "Household 
Words," and  in  an  essay  entitled  "Gibbet  Street," 
to  make  the  respectable  classes  aware  of  what  a 
hideous,  pestilential,  fever,  thief,  and  beggar  in- 
fested place  wa:s  Charles  Street,  Drury  Lane  ;  and 
how  it  was  a  hot-bed  and  forcing-house  for  the 
hulks  and  the  scaffold. 

I  remark  that  recently  "S.  G.  O.,"  in  the 
"  Times,"  has  been  sailing  (in  the  wind  of  indif- 
ference's teeth)  on  the  same  tack,  and,  under  the 
generic  term  of  "Guilt  Gardens,"  has  exposed 
the  misery  and  the  shame  of  these  places.  Yet 
do  I  fear  that  Charles  Street,  Drury  Lane,  and 
its  congeners,  will  outlive  both  Lord  Sidney  Go- 
dolphin  Osborne  and  his  humble  protest 


94  BEEAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

I  have  not  yet  beard  anything  about  pulling 
down  the  Coal  Yard,  Church  Lane,  St.  Giles's,  or 
Dudley  Street,  or  those  most  scandalous  little  ar- 
teries injected  with  the  worst  of  human  blood 
that  stagnate  and  fester,  varicose  in  their  vaga- 
bondism, about  Gray's  Inn  Lane.  And  Middle 
Row,  Holborn  ?  and  Clement's  Lane,  Strand  ? 
and  the  cloaca  of  Clare  Market  ?  and  the  Colon- 
nade behind  Guildford  Street,  Russell  Square  ? 
These  frightful  dens  yet  exist,  yet  nourish  in  rank 
luxuriance  ;  and  any  number  of  vested  interests 
would  shrink  with  indignant  affright  were  it  pro- 
posed to  pull  them  down.     Proposed ! 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  can  see  a  phlegmatic-look- 
ing gentleman,  in  a  wrell  buttoned  frock-coat, 
smoking  his  cigarette  in  his  cabinet  de  travail  at 
the  Tuileries,  and,  as  he  emits  curling  threads  of 
blue  vapor,  or  twists  his  spiky  moustache,  going 
over  a  map  of  Paris  ;  then  placing  his  imperial 
finger  on  a  labyrinth  of  slums,  he  says  sharply  to 
Baron  Haussmann,  "  If.  le  Prefet,  otez  moi  ce 
tas  oVimmondices" — sweep  me  all  this  rubbish 
away  before  the  name  of  Robinson  (bight  Jack) 
can  be  thrice  pronounced.  But,  then,  my  friend, 
I  should  not  like  to  give  up  my  Habeas  Corpus, 
and  my  right  to  good  and  substantial  bail — with 
sundry  other  trifles  light  as  air  in  the  way  of 
liberty — for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  the  Coal 
Yard  or  Middle  Eow. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  95 

The  transformation  of  London,  of  which  the 
commencement  may  be  dated  from  the  attain- 
ment of  his  majority  by  the  Prince  of  "Wales,  will 
be  necessarily  slow  and  gradual ;  for  we  have  no 
Prefects  of  the  Thames — our  municipal  autho- 
rities are  more  retrogressive  than  progressive, 
and  it  would  be  easier,  I  take  it,  to  obtain  a 
grant  of  City  money  for  furbishing  up  the  Lord 
Mayor's  coach,  or  replacing  the  rotten  portals  of 
Temple  Bar,  than  for  laying  out  Smithfield  as  a 
Park,  or  sweeping  away  the  nasty  purlieus  of 
Finsbury. 

Yet  even  within  the  charmed  circle  wherein 
William  the  King,  six  hundred  years  ago,  told 
William  the  Bishop  and  Godfrey  the  Portreve 
that  all  citizens  should  be  law- worthy,  and  all 
children  be  their  father's  heirs  after  their  father's 
days — even  within  the  domains  of  Gog  and 
Magog,  there  are  numerous  signs  of  a  "  Going, 
going — gone!"  era. 

Temple  Bar,  it  is  true,  stands  as  fast  as  the 
barber's  on  one  side  and  the  banking-house  on  the 
other  can  make  it ;  but  Chancery  Lane  has  been 
widened,  and  handsome  edifices  substituted  for 
the  queer,  tumble-down,  albeit  picturesque  old 
tenements,  of  which  the  only  records  now  are 
the  etchings  of  John  Thomas  Smith. 

Messrs.  Adams  and  Ede  the  robe-makers,  Par- 
tridge and  Cozens  the  stationers,  and  the  London 


96  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  J   OE, 

Restaurant,  have  given  a  very  different  aspect  to 
the  Fleet  Street  corners  of  the  Lane — which,  how- 
ever, becomes  antique  enough  as  you  progress 
northward,  the  fat,  legal  spiders  interlacing  their 
webs  from  Lincoln's  Inn  to  Clifford  and  Sergeant's 
Inn — and  to  hives  of  chambers  yet  consecrated  to 
dirt  and  dust  and  dry  rot,  the  concoction  of  de- 
murrers, and  the  spinning  of  special  pleas. 

Is  there  not  likewise  Symond's  Inn,  that  back- 
yard of  the  law,  that  wretched  little  cour  des 
miracles  of  twentieth-rate  legal  practitioners, 
where  dubious  articled  clerks  borrow  admitted 
attorneys'  names  to  grace  their  dusky  panels,  anoT 
the  writ  with  which  you  are  served  by  Spink s  is 
issued  in  the  name  of  Jinks  ?  Who  is  the  phantom 
Jinks — this  stalking-horse,  this  parchment  aegis  of 
the  unqualified  pettifogger,  this  plastron  of  Tidd's 
practice — is  he  alive  or  dead  ?  Does  he  call  for 
the  rent  of  his  name  regularly  ?  Does  he  look  in 
at  Symond's  Inn  from  time  to  time,  to  see  how 
hi?  double  is  getting  on  ?  Does  the  appellation 
he  lets  out  on  hire  belong  really  to  the  fiend,  like 
Peter  Schlemil's  shadow  ?  Some  of  these  days, 
Symond's — the  least  known,  perhaps,  of  all  the 
obscure  Inns  of  Chancery — must  go  by  the  board; 
and  it  is,  even  now,  an  anachronism..  I  always 
fancy  it  the  haunt  of  the  last  professors  of  the  art 
of  forestalling,  regrating,  and  common  barratry  ; 
of  old-world  lawyers,  who  yet  sue  by  mesne  pro- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  97 

cess,  the  Eleventh  of  George  the  Second  notwith- 
standing, draw  pleadings  in  Latin,  and  frame 
answers  in  Norman-French. 

I  always  look  for  the  names  of  John  Doe  or 
Richard  Koe  on  the  door-jambs  ;  or  expect  to 
find  John  a'  Nokes  arguing  in  the  centre  of  the 
court-yard  with  John  a'  Styles  on  the  vexed 
question  of  the  pied  horses  and  the  horses  that 
were  pied. 

But  hie  we  through  the  bar  again ;  or  better 
still,  thread  one  of  those  astounding  mazes  of 
dirty  lanes,  full  of  chandlers'  shops,  bookstalls, 
law-writers,  beggars,  marine  stores,  fried-fish,  and 
furniture  brokers,  that  lie  between-Carey  Street 
and  Clare  Market.  Glance  at  the  filthy  bye 
streets  which  recall  the  famous  names  of  Denzil 
Holies,  of  the  Earl  of  Clare,  of  the  Duchess  of 
Newcastle.  Struggle  down,  as  well  as  you  can 
for  costermongers'  barrows  and  sprawling  child- 
ren, past  Wych  Street,  and  ere  you  come  into 
the  Strand,  and  to  Holywell  Street,  look  to  the 
gaping  space  to  the  left.  That  Sahara  of  rubbish, 
girt  by  a  fringe  of  crumbling  brickwork,  was 
once  Lyon's  Inn. 

"  On  the  subject  of  Lyon's  Inn,"  writs  Ire- 
land, "  all  historians  remain  silent."  I  wonder 
that  .the  distinguished  papa  of  the  Shakesperian 
forger,  and  who  was  himself  by  no  means  remark- 
able for  veracity,  did  not  think  it  worth  his  while 

5 


98  BREAKFAST   IN    BED  ;    OR, 

to  fill  up  the  historic  vacuum  which  he  laments, 
by  means  of  a  few  lies.  When  Sam  Ireland, 
senior,  visited  Lyon's  Inn  in  the  first  year  of  the 
present  century,  he  found  the  Hall  (which  was 
built  in  1700)  destitute  of  any  circumstance  to 
recommend  it  save  its  extreme  filth,  and  opines 
that  the  use  of  mops  and  brooms  was  totally  un- 
known to  the  principal  and  ancients  of  this  honor- 
able society.  'A  brood  of  chickens  was  tranquilly 
roosting  on  the  haut  pas,  and  an  old  hen  was 
laying  down  the  law  to  an  attentive  audience  of 
cobwebs. 

And  yet  /this  inconceivably  dingy  and  decayed 
old  place  had  been,  according  to  the  steward's 
account,  an  Inn  of  Chancery  since  the  days  of 
Henry  Y.  I  can  imagine  Sir  John  Falstaff  lodg- 
ing there,  and  being  dunned  for  the  rent  of  his 
chambers  when  Mrs.  Quickly  declined  to  afford 
him  any  more  accommodation  on  trust  at  the 
Boar's  Head,  Ireland  gives  an  etching  of  it, 
which  may  be  found  in  his  "  History  of  the  Inns 
of  Court."  It  was  in  truth  a  very  kennel,  a  cave 
of  Adullam,  whither  repaired  all  that  were  in 
debt  and  all  that  were  discontented.  I  wonder 
that  it  was  not  converted  into  a  furniture  bazaar, 
for  from  year's  end  to  year's  end  the  brokers  were 
always  "  in  "  some  one  or  other  of  the  chambers ; 
as  for  the  tenants,  those  who  were  not  bankrupt 
were  profligate — there    was    always   somebody 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  99 

down  with  low  fever,  and  always  somebody  else 
up  with  delirium  tremens.  Lyon's  Inn,  as  to  its 
occupancy,  was  a  receiving-house  for  the  Insol- 
vent Debtors'  Court,  and  an  ante-chamber  to 
Whitecross  Street.  Still  had  the  unlovely  little 
place  its  fasti — not  very  pleasant,  but  memorable 
ones  nevertheless.  Is  it  not  recorded  by  Lock- 
hart,  in  his  ballad  on  the  Gill's  Hill  Lane  murder, 
that  the  victim's  name  was  "  Mr.  William 
Weare,"  and  that  he  "dwelt  in  Lyon's  Inn"? 
Yes  ;  in  one  of  those  mouldy  sets  of  chambers 
lived  the  disreputable  sharper  and  u  mace  man," 
who  was  only  thwarted  in  his  scheme  to  plunder 
three  rogues  by  the  three  rogues  aforesaid  laying 
a  plot,  more  cunning,  more  desperate,  and  more 
successful,  for  plundering  him.  The  booty  was 
a  wretched  one — not  a  tithe  of  what  they  ex- 
pected ;  but  Mr.  Jack  Thurtell — who  I  am  given 
to  understand  was  a  rollicking  boon  companion, 
and  only  second  as  a  convivial  vocalist  to  his  ad- 
mired associate  Mr.  Hunt — was  a  gentleman  who 
would  have  meal  if  he  could  not  get  malt,  and  in 
default  of  either,  blood ;  so  that,  in  default  of 
spoil,  he  very  punctually  murdered  Mr.  William 
We  are. 

That  Lyon's  Inn  should  have  any  connection 
with  the  First  Napoleon  may,  at  the  first  blush, 
appear  strange  and  improbable.  In  a  visit  of 
the  present  Kuler  of  France  in  the    old  days, 


100  BREAKFAST    IN   BED;    OR, 

when  lie  was  "  Prince  Bonyparty,"  the  needy 
adventurer,  to  whom  wiseacres  would  scarcely 
allow,  any  wits  to  live  upon,  there  would  have 
been  little  out  of  the  way.  He  might  have  gone 
to  Lyon's  Inn  to  get  a  little  bill  done,  or  to  pay 
the  interest  on  one  that  was  overdue.  But  Na- 
poleon the  Great,  Emperor  and  King  and  Pro- 
tector of  the  Confederation  of  the  Khine  !  what 
could  he  have  had  to  do  with  the  shady  little 
Inn  nestling  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Strand? 
Thus  much :  John  "Wilson  Croker,  the  late 
Secretary  to  the  Admiralty,  literary  squidiish  of 
the  "  Quarterly  Keview,"  and  friend  of  the 
Marquis  of  Hertford,  in  his  celebrated  endeavor 
to  whitewash  Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  blacken  the 
memory  of  Napoleon,  and  squelch  Barry 
O'Meara,  tells  (Oct.  1822)  a  sufficiently  curious 
story,  setting  forth  how,  a  short  time  before  his 
(0'Meara?s)  departure  from  St.  Helena,  a  ship 
arrived  from  England,  having  on  board  a  box 
of  French  books  and  a  letter  addressed  to  a  Mr. 
Fowler,  the  partner  of  Mr.  Balcombe,  Buona- 
parte's purveyor.  Mr.  Fowler,  on  opening  the 
letter,  found  that  it  contained  nothing  but  an 
enclosure  addressed  to  James  Forbes,  Esq.  As 
he  knew  no  James  Forbes,  he  thought  it  his 
duty  to  carry  the  letter  to  the  Governor ;  fur- 
ther inquiries  ascertained  that  there  was  no  per- 
son of  the  name  of  James  Forbes  on  the  Island ; 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN    THE    SHEETS.  101 

and  accordingly  it  was  thought  proper  to  open 
this  mysterious  letter  before  the  Governor  and 
Council,  when  it  was  found  to  begin  with  the 
words  "Dear  O'Meara;"  it  was  dated  LyorCs 
Inn,  London,  and  signed  William  Holmes.  And 
to  think  that  Mr.  William  Holmes  may  be  yet 
alive,  while  I  am  Breakfasting  in  Bed !  'Tis  but 
forty  years  since ;  Mr.  Holmes  may  have  begun 
business  early.  Who  shall  say  but  that  the 
placid,  white-haired  old  gentleman  I  saw  yester- 
day contemplating  the  ruins  of  Lyon's  Inn  was 
Mr.  William  Holmes,  come  to  a  green  old  age, 
and  serenely  unmindful  of  the  dark,  tempestuous 
time  when  he  was  the  occult  agent  of  the  Captive 
of  St.  Helena,  when  he  wrote  :  "  I  expect  to  hear 
from  my  friends  at  Rome  and  Munich,  of  which 
you  shall  have  due  information  V  Rome  and 
Munich  were  then  the  residence  of  the  banished 
princes  and  princesses  of  the  Imperial  family,  of 
Eugene  BeauTiarnais  and  Cardinal  Fesch. 

Again  writes  the  sibylline  Holmes:  "The 
100,000  francs,  lent  in  1816,  are  paid  ;  likewise  the 
72,000  francs,  which  complete  the  395,000  francs 
mentioned  on  the  loth  March.  The  36,000  francs 
for  1817,  and  the  like  sum  for  1819,  have  also  been 
paid  by  the  person  ordered.  Remain  quiet  as  to 
the  funds  placed  ;  the  farmers  are  good,  and  they 
will  pay  bills  for  the  amount  of  the  income,  which 
must  be  calculated  at  the  rate  of  four  per  cent." 


102  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

"  Going,  going — gone !"  William  Holmes  may 
have  been  an  old,  old  man,  ere  lie  was  trusted 
with  the  secrets  of  the  Napoleonic  finance,  and 
may  have  slept  the  last  sleep  these  thirty  years. 
He  and  his  mysteries,  and  the  Inn  he  transacted 
his  business  in,  all  fade  away  into  a  mass  of 
crumbling  rubbish,  to  be  carted  away,  leaving 
no  vestige  behind. 

And  Exeter  'Change — not  the  'Change  of  Pid- 
cock  and  Crosse,  and  poor  Chunee  the  Elephant, 
but  the  more  modern  structure — the  lamentable 
arcade  where  none  but  crazy  or  impecunious 
tenants  could  be  found  for  the  dingy  little  dens 
of  shops :  of  that,  too,  must  be  written  fuit.  And 
Hungerford  Market,  with  Mr.  Gatti's  ice-shop ! 
The  Market  is  gone,  and  the  Bridge  likewise. 
The  adage  is  reversed,  and  the  fish  has  become 
fieshified. 

There  :  I  have  no  heart  to  read  about  any  more 
metropolitan  improvements.  The  London  of  the 
past,  the  London  of  my  youth,  the  London  in 
which  I  can  remember  the  dancing  bear  and  the 
camel  with  the  monkey  on  his  back,  the  climbing 
boys  and  the  small-coal  man,  Padlock  House, 
and  Cranbourn  Alley,  Chalk  Farm  and  the  Holy 
Land,  the  Borough  Mint  and  George  the  Fourth's 
statue  at  King's  Cross,  the  Mews  and  Cotton  Gar- 
den, the  Quadrant  Colonnade  and  the  Thatched 
House  Tavern — this  London  has  disappeared  for 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN    THE   SHEETS.  103 


ever.  What  next,  I  wonder  ?  Is  Temple  Bar  to 
suffer  the  common  lot?  Does  any  bold  icono- 
clast contemplate  the  removal  of  Middle  Row  ? 
Is  the  integrity  of  St.  Martin's  Workhouse 
threatened?  Or  will  it  occur  to  an  innovating" 
Duke  of  Bedford  that  Russell  Square,  laid  out 
as  a  public  pleasure-garden,  and  surrounded  by 
handsome  mansions  and  hotels,  with  shops  and 
cafes  on  the  basement,  might  be  made  one  of  the 
most  magnificent  places  in  Europe  ?  Who  knows  ? 
Meanwhile  I  turn  on  my  pillow,  and,  taking 
up  the  supplement  to  the  "  Times,"  observe  with 
grim  satisfaction  that  a  twenty-one  years'  lease 
of  a  house  in  Golden  Square  is  to  be  sold.  Aha  ! 
that  choice  resort  of  the  dinginesses  and  the 
second-handisms  is  safe  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
century.  It  will  last  my  time,  and  the  worms 
will  be  Breakfasting  on  me,  in  my  Bed,  ere  the 
sepulchral  cry  of  "  Going,  going — gone-!"  is 
heard  over  Golden  Square ! 


104  BEEAKFAST   IN   BED  J    OR, 


ON  BEING  BURNT  ALIYE. 

We  have  all  of  us,  I  deferentially  infer,  dreamt 
gome  strange  and  curious  and  horrible  things  in 
our  time — not  necessarily  after  a  supper  of  un- 
der-done pork-chops,  but  often  under  calm  and 
placid  outward  circumstances,  which  one  might 
naturally  assume  to  be  conducive  to  the  most 
balmily-tranquil  slumbers.  I  went  to-bed  the 
other  night,  with  nothing  particular  on  my  con- 
science, and  after  no  ccenal  meal  heavier  than 
three  pills.  I  woke  up  in  the  gray  of  the  morn- 
ing in  an  agony  of  terror,  for  I  had  dreamt  that 
I  was  Burnt  Alive. 

Not  merely  condemned  to  the  stake  or  deliv- 
ered over  to  the  secular  arm.  No,  no,  no  !  ] 
was  actually  and  corporally  (in  my  dream)  con- 
sumed by  Fire.     A  fearsome  thing  ! 

In  that  heterogeneous  medley  of  humor,  buf- 
foonery, eloquence,  poetry,  pathos,  Scotch  ego- 
tism and  conceit,  blind  Toryism,  abstract  Repub- 
licanism, wit,  gluttony,  scurrility,  philosophy, 
and  drunkenness,  the  "Noctes  Ambrosianoe," 
Professor  Wilson  makes  the  Ettrick  Shepherd 
relate  his  experience,  in  a  dream,  of  the  gallows. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  105 

Mr.  Timothy  Tickler  expresses  his  opinion  that 
to  dream  of  being  hanged  is  a  luxury ;  but  the 
Shepherd  sees  nothing  at  all  luxurious  in  it. 

"It's  the  warst  job  of  a',"  says  the  mythical 
James  Hogg,  "  and  gars  my  very  sowl  sicken  wi' 
horror  for  sake  o'  the  puir  deevils  that's  really 
hang'd  out  and  out,  lon&fide,  wi'  a  tangible  tow, 
and  a  hangman  that's  mair  than  a  mere  appari- 
tion ;  a  pardoned  felon,  wi'  creeshy  second-hand 
corduroy  breeks,  and  coat  short  at  the  cuffs,  sae 
that  his  thick  hairy  wrists  are  visible  when  he's 
adjustin'  the  halter;  hair  red,  red,  yet  no  sae  red 
as  his  bleared  een,  glarin'  wi'  an  unaccountable 
fierceness." 

This  is  undeniably  graphic,  but  too  imagina- 
tive. The  Shepherd  had  evidently  never  come 
in  contact  with  the  real  hangman — the  demure, 
highly  respectable,  Methodist-parson-looking 
man,  who  executes  with  quiet  docorum  the  dread 
mandate  of  the  law,  and  turns  you  off  gingerly, 
for  fear  of  spoiling  your  clothes,  which  he  is  go- 
ing to  sell  to  Madame  Tussaud  for  the  Chamber 
of  Horrors. 

Mr.  Hogg,  however,  was  not  satisfied  with  be- 
ing hanged.  It  occurred  to  him  to  dream  that 
he  was  beheaded.  The  ceremony  took  place  on 
a  scaffold,  forty  feet  high,  "  a'  hung  wi'  black 
cloth,  and  onen  to  a'  airts."  The  headsman  was 
"  sax  feet  and  some  inches  "  high.  He  stood  "  wi' 
5* 


106  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

an  axe  over  his  shoulder,  and  his  twa  naked  arms 
o'  a  fearsome  thickness,  a'  crawlin'  wi'  sinews,  like 
a  yard  o'  cable  to  the  sheet-anchor  o'  a  man-o'- 
war."  The  executioner,  it  appears,  turned  squeam- 
ish over  the  task  of  cutting  Mr.  Hogg's  head  off. 
"  The  axe  fell  out  o'  his  hauns,  and,  bein'  sharp, 
its  ain  wecht  drav'  it  quiverin'  into  the  block,  and 
close  to  my  ear  ;  the  verra  senseless  wood  gied  a 
groan.  I  louped  up  on  to  my  feet.  I  cried  wi' 
a  loud  voice,  6  Countrymen,  I  stand  here  for  the 
sacred  cause  of  Liberty  all  over  the  world.'  .... 
I  might  have  escaped  ;  but  I  was  resolved  to 
cement  the  cause  with  my  martyred  blood.  I 
was  not  a  man  to  disappoint  the  people.  They 
had  come  there  to  see  me  die" — not  James  Hogg 
the  Ettrick  Shepherd,  but  Hogg  the  Liberator 
— "  and  from  my  blood,  I  felt  assured,  would 
arise  millions  of  armed  men,  under  whose  tread 
would  sink  the  thrones  of  ancient  dynasties,  and 
whose  hand  would  unfurl  to  all  the  winds  the 
standard  of  Freedom,  never  again  to  encircle  the 
staff  till  its  dreadful  rustling  had  quailed  the 
kings — even  as  the  mountain  sough  sends  down 
upon  their  knees  whole  herds  of  cattle,  ere  rat- 
tles from  summit  to  summit  the  exulting  music 
of  the  thunder-storm." 

This  is  very  fine  and  grand,  and  piles  up  the 
agony  with  a  vengeance ;  but  still  I  don't  be- 
lieve very  strongly  that  worthy  James  Hogg  ever 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  107 

had  such,  a  dream  or  dreams.  The  narrative  was 
probably  written  by  the  eloquent  Professor  Wil- 
son, not  when  u  aibliiis  fou"  at  Mr.  Ambrose's 
in  Picardy  Place,  but  with  calm  deliberation  in 
his  own  study.  As  a  rule,  you  may  make  cer- 
tain that  the  circumstances  under  which  cele- 
brated literary  exercitations  are  said  to  have 
been  composed  are  not  those  which  actually  oc- 
curred ;  and,  equally  as  a  rule,  you  may  rest 
satisfied  that  the  scenes  and  characters  most  ela- 
borately drawn  and  most  minutely  filled  up  are 
those  with  which  the  author  has  had  the  slightest 
personal  acquaintance. 

For  all  that,  I  really  am  Breakfasting  in  Bed 
this  morning,  and  I  positively  did  dream  last 
night  that  I  was  being  Burnt  Alive. 

It  was  terrible.  I  really  felt  the  crackling 
agony  of  the  flames.  Schoolboys  often  dream  of 
being  flogged  ;  but  the  bodily  is  not  commensu- 
rate with  the  mental  pain,  and  the  shadowy  pe- 
dagogue's blows  fall  lightly  as  those  of  a  bladder 
filled  with  peas.  I  have  dreamt  of  being  de- 
voured by  wild  beasts,  but  always  woke  as  they 
were  beginning  to  crunch  my  bones,  and  before 
they  got  to  the  marrow ;  of  drowning ;  of  suffo- 
cation by  charcoal ;  and  especially  of  heing  hu- 
rled alive.  Arrah  !  that  horrible  hot  atmosphere 
of  the  coffin,  and  the  grave-clothes  that  swaddle 
and  hamper  you  as  you  kick  for  freedom,  and 


108  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  J    OB, 

the  dreadful  pressure  of  the  coffin-lid  on  your 
nose  ;  while  all  the  while  you  are  visually  con- 
scious of  the  gravedigger  smoking  a  pipe  and 
drinking  cold  rurn-and-water  with  your  mother- 
in-law  in  the  parlor  of  the  Half-Moon  and  Seven 
Stars,  the  third  house  to  the  left  round  the  cor- 
ner as  you  leave  the  cemetery ! 

"  He  wa'n't  of  much  account,"  "says  the  grave- 
digger,  burying  his  nose  in  the  rum-and-Water. 

"  He  was  a  black-hearted  villain,"  adds  your 
mother-in-law,  filling  her  second  pipe. 

"What  a  disturbance  the  old  lady  used  to  make 
if  you  ventured  on  a  mild  havanna  in  the  back 
drawing-room !  ^  And  then  you  begin  kicking 
again  in  your  shroud  and  cerements,  and — you 
wake ! 

I  didn't  wake  for  hours,  so  it  seemed — for 
hours,  for  weeks,  for  months,  for  years,  for  cen- 
turies— while  I  was  being  burnt  alive.  The  In- 
quisition did  it  all,  of  course.  "In  half  an  hour 
from  the  first  spark  the  hills  glowed  with  fire  un- 
extinguishable  by  a  waterspout.  The  crackle 
became  a  glow,  as  acre  after  acre  joined  the 
flames.  Here  and  there  a  rock  stood  in  the  way, 
and  the  burning  waves  broke  against  it,  till  the 
crowning  birch-tree  took  fire,  and  its  leaves,  like 
a  shower  of  flaming  diamonds,  were  in  a  minute 
consumed."  Well,  it  wasn't  like  that.  "Mil 
lions  and  millions  of  sparks  of  fire  in  heaven,  but 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  109 

only  some  six  or  seven  stars.  How  calm  the 
large  lustre  of  Hesperus !"  Certainly  ;  only  Hes- 
perus didn't  shine  when  I  was  burnt  alive.  Not 
only  sparks,  but  stars,  whole  constellations,  with 
any  number  of  suns,  moons,  and  comets  to  boot, 
danced  before  my  eyes.  "Not  only  my  body,  but 
my  brain  was  on  fire.  I  was  bound  to  the  stake, 
or  the  bedpost,  or  something  of  that  sort.  I 
think  that  at  one  stage  of  my  agony  I  was  a  Hin- 
doo widow  in  the  performance  of  the  rite  of 
suttee,  with  plenty  of  flax  and  fresh  butter  to 
keep  me  blazing,  and  a  Brahmin  gentleman,  with 
a  fine  yellow  streak  of  caste  on  his  forehead,  to 
assure  me  of  eternal  felicity  immediately  after  my 
reduction  to  a  cinder.  Then  I  was  transformed 
into  a  cat,  and  an  enormous  gorilla  held  me  tight 
in  one  hairy  arm,  while  with  the  other  he  guided 
my  unwilling  paw  to  sweep  some  chestnuts  off  a 
red-hot  hob.  Then,  of  course,  in  the  usual  man- 
ner of  digressional  dreaming,  I  ran  off  at  several 
tangents,  and  became  Sir  Edwin  Landseer,  M. 
Paul  de  Chaillu,  and  the  late  Mr.  Douglas  Jer- 
rold's  comedy  of  "  The  Cat's-paw ;"  but  I  was 
still  burning,  and  so  continued  to  burn,  till 
I  could  feel  and  writhe  no  longer — when  I 
awoke. 

It  is  a  gruesome  thing  to  have  undergone  these 
torments  even  in  a  dream.  JDeja !  Prince  Tal- 
leyrand might  have  remarked,  had  I  subjected 


110  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  I    OR 


my  tier j  feelings  to  the  most  obvious  and  most 
usual  degree  of  comparison. 

Of  course  I  know  what  it  all  arose  from.  It 
wasn't  indigestion.  It  wasn't  liver.  It  wasn't 
determination  of  blood  to  the  head  ;  and  I  don't 
think  it  was  conscience.  'Twas  merely  the  inco- 
herent embodiment  of  an  imagination  excited  by 
the  perusal  of  those  dreadful  accounts  of  young 
girls  being  burnt  alive,  of  which  we  have  had 
lately  a  melancholy  succession.  I  had  been  read- 
ing about  the  catastrophe  at  ^ice  ;  about  the 
grim  tragedy  of  the  transformation-scene  at  the 
Princess's  Theatre ;  about  the  accident  in  Harley 
Street;  about  Doctor  Lankester,  the  coroner,  and 
his  indignant  philippics  agains^  crinoline.  I  had 
gone  to  bed  with  my  head  full  of  the  poor  suf- 
ferers who  had  been  burnt  alive,  and  sleep  had 
knitted  up  the  ravelled  skein  of  preoccupation 
into  a  dire  fabric  of  disasters  to  myself. 

One  has  but  to  glance  from  column  to  column 
of  the  paj)ers  to  breakfast — if  you  forswear  sup- 
ping— full  of  horrors.  Burnt  alive !  Burnt 
alive  !  Burnt  alive !  the  catalogue  goes  on  in 
lurid  iteration.  The  poor  have  woes  enough  of 
their  own,  God  knows ;  but  this  is  an  anguish 
of  which  the  rich,  so  far  from  being  exempt,  seem 
the  chosen  and  particular  victims. 

Youth  and  beauty,  carriages  and  horses,  live- 
ried servants,  rank,  brave  garments,  lip-service, 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  Ill 

and  homage,  shall  not  wrest  Lady  Clara  Yere  de 
Yere  from  the  clutch  of  the  Fire  Demon.  Let 
her  paint  an  inch  thick,  and  to  the  complexion 
of  charred  and  greasy  ashes  she  comes — comes 
through  insensate  vanity  and  recklessness.  The 
music  of  the  ball  is  yet  rippling  in  soft  waves  of 
sound  through  her  ears;  the  sugared  compli- 
ments of  her  cavaliers  still,  half-melted,  leave  a 
dulcet  velvet-pile  on  her  lips ;  she  is  spreading 
mit  the  radiant  finery  in  which  she  has  fluttered 
through  the  festival.  Poor  little  ephemeral  fash- 
ion-gnat!  The  flounces  and  furbelows  which 
have  made  so  many  men  enthusiastic,  so  many 
women  jealous,  still  rustle  round  her,  diaphanous 
and  fluent,  when  all  is  changed  to  a  dreadful  flare 
and  crackling.  Like  Facinata  in  her  burning 
tomb,  she  writhes  in  a  shroud  of  flame.  The  mili- 
ner's  handiwork  is  beaten  into  powder  by  the 
Cinder  Fiend.  There  is  nothing  left  but  scorched 
and  naked  limbs. 

And  when  the  Fire  comes,  reprehending  no 
vanity,  placing  his  brand  of  interdict  on  no  pre- 
posterous frenzy  of  fashion,  but  dipping  his  finger 
into  the  family  wine-cup  and  setting  it  flaming, 
starting  up  from  the  cozy  hearth,  leaping  like  a 
treacherous  beast  of  blood  from  out  the  bars  of 
the  grate— how  is  it  then  I  When  we  were  chil- 
dren, we  used  to  nickname  the  live  cinders  that 
fell  from  the  tire,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  the 


112  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  ;   OR, 

hearth-rug,  "  purses "  or  M  coffins."  The  first, 
when  cold  and  shaken,  had  a  pleasant  money- 
jingling  sound.  The  last  had  an  ugly  longitudi- 
nal form ;  and  the  morbid-minded  among  us  de- 
clared we  could  discern  on  the  surface  ominous 
little  specks  and  spots,  that  were  at  once  assumed 
to  represent  a  coffin-plate  and  nails. 

Those  leaping  biers  are  grimly  common  just 
now.  They  disdain  to  smoulder  in  the  woollen 
rug  before  the  hearth.  Their  favorite  resting- 
place  is  in  the  gauzy  folds  of  the  lady's  dress. 
The  coffins  gape,  they  have  grown  into  sepul- 
chres, and  folly  falls  into  them. 

I  said  the  rich  seemed  marked  out  specially  for 
such  torment.  Ah,  vain  and  presumptuous  as- 
sertion !  Ah,  crudest  of  dogmatisms !  Who  is 
exempt  from  aught  ?  That  workhouse  pauper  is 
a  martyr  to  the  same  lumbago  which  makes  rigid 
the  loins  of  the  million-rich  banker.  The  Fire 
may  oftentimes  seem  spitefully  faithful  to  afflu- 
ence, as  though  he  said,  "  Aha  !  I  will  show  them 
that  money-bags  shall  not  avail  against  live  coals. 
Oho  !  I  will  prove  that  my  furnace  has  a  red- 
der hue  than  Burke's  Peerage.  Ai!  ai!  I  will 
teach  them  to  have  balls,  and  bancpets,  and  junk- 
etings." But  he  comes  back  at  last  to  the  stern, 
impartial  rule ;  and  he  who  is  own  brother  to  Death 
proclaims  himself,  like  Death,  mighty  and  just. 
Question  not  the  equity  of  the  Fire  King's  dis- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  113 

pensation.  All  lie  touches  with  red-hot  sceptre  : 
yon,  and  me,  and  all  the  world.  Who  of  us,  in 
his  calendar  of  griefs,  cannot  recall  some  horrible 
red-letter  days? 

When  this  old  hat  was  new,  it  was  encircled 
by  a  crape ;  and  for  whom  worn  ? — the  little, 
little  kinsman,  with  his  dark  eyes,  and  merry 
laugh,  and  bright  face,  that  made  us  remember, 
half-joy  fully,  half-tearfully,  the  lineaments  of  the 
dear  dead  that  had  gone  before  l.im.  And  he 
was  playing  before  the  fire  in  the  upper  room, 
when,  with  that  cruel  carelessness  which  makes 
us  almost  think  some  girls  to  be  fiends,  the  ser- 
vant had  left  him — left  him  on  so  meddle  chatter- 
ing errand.  And  his  pinafore  caught  fire ;  and 
there  was  an  inquest — a  grave  judicial  investiga- 
tion— on  that  poor  little  morsel  of  humanity. 
And — look  you  here,  my  brother.  If  we  were 
all  to  mourn  for  ever  and  aye,  and  to  refuse  to 
be  comforted,  and  to  parade  our  grief  before  all 
the  world,  do  you  think  this  same  world  could 
go  on?  Do  you  think  that  He,  whose  wisest 
creature  told  us  that  "joy  cometh  in  the  morn- 
ing," would  not  have  cause  to  cast  us  away  as 
selfish  and  ungrateful? 

We  read  in  the  Book  to  which  Dr.  Cocker- 
Colenso  has  taken  so  many  arithmetical  objec- 
tions, that  when  the  child  that  Uriah's  wife  bare 
to  David  was  stricken  with  sickness,  the  king  be- 


114: 


OR, 


sought  God  for  the  child,  and  fasted,  and  went 
in  and  lay  all  night  upon  the  earth,  refusing  to 
eat  bread,  or  to  be  raised  up  by  the  elders  of  his 
house  ;  when  on  the  seventh  day  the  child  died, 
and  his  servants  feared  to  tell  him.  He  never- 
theless discovered,  from  their  scared  looks,  that 
the  little  one  was  lost ;  and  then  "  arose  from 
the  earth,  and  washed  and  anointed  himself,  and 
changed  his  apparel,  and  came  into  the  house  of 
the  Lord  and  worshipped:  then  he  came  to  his 
own  house  /  and  when  he  required,  they  set  bread 
"before  him,  and  he  did  eat ;"  answering,  when 
his  servants  marvelled  at  the  strange  change  in 
his  behavior,  "  While  the  child  was  yet  alive,  1 
fasted  and  wept;  for  I  said,  Who  can  tell 
whether  God  will  be  gracious  to  me,  that  the  child 
may  live  f  But  now  he  is  dead,  wherefore  should 
I  fast  f  Can  I  bring  him  bach  again  f  I  shall 
go  to  him /  but  he  shall  not  return  to  me" 

These  awful  accidents  by  fire,  which,  with  ter- 
rible similarity  of  occurrence,  have  made  us  all 
tremble  and  stand  amazed,  have,  through  that 
odd  yet  usual  propensity  of  the  English  people 
for  imitating  the  procedure  of  a  bull  running  at 
a  gate,  been  laid  at  the  door  of  crinoline.  If 
ladies  did  not  persist  in  wearing  exaggerated 
hoop-petticoats,  urged  the  Bull-Run  philoso- 
phers, there- would  be  no  catastrophes  from  fire. 

I  don't  think  such  nonsense  was  ever  talked 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  115 

out  of  Bedlam  ;  yet  you  find  plenty  of  people, 
ordinarily  supposed  to  be  sensible  and  even  sa- 
gacious, who  join  in  this  parrot-cry.     'Tis  on  a 
par,  for  common  sense,  with  the  silly  dogmatists 
among  the  "  practical "  penal  philosophers,  who 
are  for  having  all  criminals,  whatsoever  may  be 
their  offence,    starved,  flogged,  and  worked  in 
chain-gangs,  merely  because  their  own  coward- 
ice and  avarice  have  been  aroused  and  alarmed 
by  the  street-outrages  of  a  couple  of  score  garot- 
ters.     I  am  not  about  to  cry  up  crinoline.     I  am 
not  favored  with  the  acquaintance  of  any  manu- 
facturers of  steel-springs  and  horsehair  petticoats, 
and  have  no  wish  to  puff  the  dealers  in  such  arti- 
cles.    Nor  am  I  disposed  to  deny  that  unduly 
bulging  skirts  have  been  the  cause  of  numerous 
accidents  by  fire  or  otherwise.    But  do  you  think 
that  young,  middle-aged,   or   old  ladies  would 
cease  to  be  burnt  alive  if  petticoats  were  reduced 
to  the  circumference  in  fashion  forty  years  ago, 
when  a  lady's  dress  fell  in  a  perpendicular  line 
close  to  her  limbs  from  hip  to  ankle ;  when  the 
gown  was,  in  fact,  but  "  a  pantaloon  on  one  leg  I" 
Bah !   dilated  crinoline  is  a  nuisance  to  men,  and 
makes    some  women,  very  ridiculous;    but   the 
real  root  of  the  evil  in  fire-casualties  is  not  crin- 
oline. 

When  ironmongers   abandon  the   abominable 
practice  of  building  fashionable  grates,  of  which 


116  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OR, 

the  topmost  bars  are  scarcely  half  a  foot  from  the 
ground,  and  which  present  an  ever-yawning  fiery 
furnace,  from  which  immaculate  virtue  would 
scarcely  have  saved  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and 
Abednego ;  when  masters  of  families  sternly  in- 
sist upon  every  grate  in  every  room  being  per- 
manently protected  by  wire-guards ;  and  when, 
above  all,  mothers  of  families  exert  their  author- 
ity to  prohibit  their  daughters  wearing  sleezy 
gauze  and  muslin  dresses  in  winter  time — we 
may  look  for  a  surcease  of  suttee  in  drawing- 
rooms  and  parlors.  I  say  this  last  is  a  matter 
which  concerns  Mater-familias,  and  her  alone.  I 
suppose  the  British  mother  has  still  some  power 
left,  notwithstanding  the  very  fast  manners  of 
the  rising  generation.  I  don't  want  any  cruelty, 
oppression,  tyranny,  to  carry  out  the  gauze- 
and-muslin  taboo.  I  only  call  for  a  calm  and 
determined  expression  of  maternal  will. 

"When  the  unsophisticated  old  lady  from  Ken- 
tucky first  saw  some  New  York  young  ladies 
indulging  in  the  vagaries  of  the  valse  d  deux 
temps,  she  very  uncompromisingly  stated  how  she 
would  treat  her  daughters  if  they  betook  them- 
selves to  such  Terpsichorean  gambadoes.  "  I'd 
give  'em  the  hickory,"  this  Spartan  parent  ex- 
claimed, "  if  they  were  as  big  as  Goliath  and  as 
old  as  Methusalem."  We  know  what  equally 
rigid  discipline  was  prescribed  by  one  of  the  in- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  117 

terlocutors  in  George  Colman's  "  Night-gown 
and  Slippers"  for  boarding-school  misses  who  ad- 
dicted themselves  to  the  pernicious  practice  of 
novel-reading.  Well,  we  don't  want  such  a 
Brownrigge  system  of  procedure  as  this.  Only 
let  Mamma  say  to  her  daughters,  "My  dears, 
you  sha'n't  be  burnt  alive,  if  I  can  help  it ;  and 
therefore  I  won't  allow  you  to  wear  gauze,  tarla- 
tans, or  muslins  in  winter-time." 

As  for  crinoline  itself,  I  am  afraid  that  prohi- 
bitions, satiric,  nay  fierce,  denunciations,  will,  for 
a  time,  be  powerless  against  it.  The  ladies,  old 
as  well  as  young,  have  nailed  their  crinoline  to 
the  mast ;  and,  if  they  are  determined  to  wear  a 
certain  thing,  who  shall  gainsay  them?  The 
Duke  of  Tantivy's  daughters  wear  top-boots, — 
tops,  madam ;  mahoganies ;  hottes  d  revers ; 
"  pickle-jars," — precisely  as  you  choose  to  em- 
ploy one  or  the  other  more  or  less  euphuistic  (I 
mean  slangy)  locution.  These  fair  pilasters, 
whose  sire  is  a  pillar  of  the  state,  enclose  their 
slender  shafts  and  pediments  in  the  leathern 
coverings  of  which  the  use  is  ordinarily  supposed 
to  be  confined  to  fox-hunters,  post-boys,  and 
farmers  of  the  old  school.  I  have  it  on  author- 
ity. There  is  not  the  slightest  compromise  in  the 
Duke's  daughters'  tops.  They  are  not  gaiters. 
They  are  not  Balmorals  prolonged  upwardly  to 
preternatural  proportions. 


118  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OB, 

Mv  informant  is  acquainted  with  the  Crispin 
employed  to  manufacture  these  articles  for  the 
Duke's  daughters.  Any  fine  afternoon  during 
the  full  Brighton  season  you  may  see  these  young 
patricians,  with  their  governess,  Mile,  de  Cuir- 
bouilli,  on  the  sea-highway  between  the  Battery 
(or  where,  at  least,  the  Battery  used,  and  the  new 
hotel  is,  to  be)  and  Pool  Valley.  If  the  wind  be 
indulging  in  even  the  smallest  puff's  of  his  char- 
tered libertinism  (and  he  is  scarcely  ever  on 
thoroughly'  good  behavior  at  Brighton),  the 
demurest  eye  must  glance  perforce  at  the  shining 
tops  I  allude  to,  pharoses,  so  to  speak,  in  the 
surging  sea  of  crinoline.  This  is  a  wonderful 
age,  and  we  are  a  wonderful  people,  and  the 
River  Amazon  has  astounding  tributaries  in  our 
country. 

When  I  laid  out  my  annual  half-a-crown  last 
Christmas — and  the  outlay  is  one  I  trust  to  be 
permitted  the  indulgence  of  for  some  years  to 
come  —  in  the  purchase  of  "Punch's  Pocket- 
Book,"  and  surveyed  Mr.  John  Leech's  panora- 
mic etching  of  "  Sea-side  Fashions  for  1863," — 
and  when  I  came  upon  the  group  of  the  fox- 
hunting-looking  belles,  in  orthodox  "  pink,"  lea- 
thers, boots,  and  whips, — I  could  scarcely  help 
exclaiming,  "  Mr.  Leech,  Mr.  Leech,  this  is  not 
character  but  caricature.  This  is  a  madness  of 
the  pencil,  a  frenzy  of  the  etching-needle,  the 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  119 

hallucination  of  a  humorous  draughtsman,  em- 
bracing his  chimera.''  But,  behold,  January  was 
yet  young,  and  Nature  had  hardly  manifested 
her  abhorrence  for  the  vacuum  caused  by  the 
abstraction  of  the  above-mentioned  half-a-crown 
from  my  pocket,  when,  on  undeniable  authority, 
I  was  told  that  the  Leechian  cartoon  was  the 
graven  embodiment,  not  of  a  myth,  but  of  a 
literal  truth,  and  that  the  Duke  of  Tantivy's 
daughters  really  wore  top-boots. 

And  why  not  ?  This  is  a  free  country.  Sump- 
tuary laws  have  been  abolished  for  ever  so  many 
centuries.  Where  is  the  use  of  having  a  Habeas 
Corpus,  if  portions  of  the  feminine  corporate 
body  are  not  to  be  thrust  with  impunity  into 
such  boots  as  caprice  may  suggest,  or  conve- 
nience dictate,  or  fashion  warrant  ?  I  see  ladies 
driving  in  the  Park  in  paletots  made  by  Poole. 
Our  wives  are  ceasing  to  employ  mantle-makers, 
and  beginning  to  order  their  coats  from  their 
husbands'  tailors ;  this  ingenious  contrivance 
having  a  double  purpose — that  of  increasing 
your  own  sartorial  accounts,  and  of  giving  the 
dear  creatures  an  opportunity  for  spending  on 
other  finery  the  ready  money  which,  either  by 
passionate  entreaty  or  gentle  coercion,  they  will 
extract  from  you,  whether  coats  or  mantles,  hats 
or  bonnets,  are  the  wear. 

Why  not?  I  repeat.     Some  years  since,  our 


120  BREAKFAST   IN  BED;   OB, 

charmers  used  to  wear  shaggy  pilot-jackets,  with 
moth  er-o'-pearl  buttons  of  alarming  circumfer- 
ence, into  the  pockets  of  which  (the  jackets,  not 
the  buttons)  they  were  wont  to  thrust  their  tiny 
hands.  Don't  you  remember,  again,  the  waist- 
coat mania  among  the  ladies — when  they  dis- 
covered that  long  gold  chains  were  utterly  use- 
less, and  had,  consequently,  to  be  provided  with 
Albert  or  brequet  guards — including,  of  course, 
a  quantity  of  "  charms  " — to  secure  their  watches 
in  their  side-pockets  ?  "What  kind  of  habiliments 
did  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden  patronise  ?  Why, 
she  dressed  like  a  grenadier.  And  Joan  of  Arc  ? 
"Why,  she  wore  corslet  and  greaves,  gauntlets  and 
surcoat,  like  a  man-at-arms.  To  be  sure  they 
burnt  her  alive  (or  are  said  to  have  done  so,  for 
many  French  archaeologists  maintain  that  Joan 
lived  to  a  good  old  age)  for  wearing  too  much 
crinoline — or  plate-armor. 

I  have  read  in  the  autobiography  of  the  Czarina 
Catherine  II.,  that  her  predecessor,  Elizabeth, 
when  a  fat,  passee  dame,  very  unwieldy,  and  very 
fond  (too  fond)  of  champagne,  was  addicted  to 
appearing  at  the  court  balls  en  cavalier  ;  that  is 
to  say,  in  a  tightly-fitting  hussar  uniform.  A 
squabby,  elderly  woman  in  tights  is  neither  a 
very  edifying  nor  a  very  delectable  spectacle ; 
but  who  was  to  question  the  sovereign  will  and 
pleasure  of  Elizabeth,  the  Supreme  Empress  of 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  12l 

all  the  Russias,  Great  Duchess  of  Moscow,  Pro- 
tectress of  the  Republic  of  ^Novgorod,  and  so 
forth  ?  The  fashions  vary,  and  the  ladies  please 
themselves.      Vive  la  'mode — et  la  bagatelle  ! 

Who  shall  say  that  Semiramis  didn't  wear  top- 
boots  ;  and  that  Ninus,  that  celebrated  prototype 
of  the  hen-pecked  husband,  was  not  county- 
courted  for  the  account  by  the  Runciman  of  the 
period  ?.  More  than  a  hundred  years  ago  the 
beautiful  Miss  Gunnings  were  the  reigning  "  sen- 
sational "  toasts  in  London  ;  and  they  appeared 
at  the  drums  and  routs  of  the  nobility  and  gen- 
try attired,  or  unattired,  in  the  manner  of  Vhich 
the  female  artistes  attached  to  the  poses  plastiques 
have  now,  without  rivalry,  a  monopoly. 

A  great  French  painter  once  told  me  that  the 
wrinkled,  snuffy  old  woman  who  swept  out  his 
studio  was  gazing  one  day  upon  a  picture  on  his 
easel,  representing  Yenus  (costume  en  chair,  buff 
trimmings)  rising  from  the  sea.  "Ah,"  she  mur- 
mured, "les  beaux  jours!  on  se  montrait  ainsi, 
quasi-nue,  au  del,  heinf  Moi  aussi  fai  pose 
clans  le  temps"  She  had  filled  the  part  (for  a 
gratuity  of  ten  francs  nine  sols)  of  Goddess  of 
Reason  in  Maximilian  Robespierre's  famous  Bed- 
lamite pageant,  and  had  been  drawn  on  a  tri- 
umphal car  through  the  streets  of  unbelieving 
Paris.  "  What  costume  did  you  wear  ?"  asked 
the  painter.     "  Dam !   quetf   chose  comm'   ca " 

6 


122  BREAKFAST   IN    BED  ;    OB, 

("something  like  that"),  replied  the  snuffy  old 
sweeper,  pointing  to  the  Yenus  with  nothing  to 
wear.  You  see,  it  was  the  fashion  of  those  Re- 
publican times.  The  French,  in  liberty,  equality, 
fraternity,  and  other  things,  outstripped  all  their 
contemporaries. 

There  is  a  queer  story  about  the  Empress  Jose- 
phine, when  she  was  the  citoyenne  Beauharnais, 
going  to  a  ball  at  Madame  Tallien's  in  a  full  suit 
of  fleshing-,  and  nothing  else  besides  a  translucid 
and  spangled  scarf.  It  was  the  fashion.  The 
greatest  proficients  in  made-dishes  in  the  world 
began  to  dress  cm  naturel.  In  1848  there  was  a 
brief  feverish  attempt  to  revive  the  Goddess-of- 
Eeason  modes  ;  and  M.  Cham  de  Xoe,  I  recol- 
lect, gave  the  "  Charivari"  a  humorous  sketch, 
depicting  the  Commissary  of  Police  presenting 
a  blooming  young-lady  candidate  for  the  office 
of  coryphee  at  the  approaching  festival  with  her 
official  costume.     It  was  a  fig-leaf. 

I  am  inclined,  then,  to  think,  on  the  whole, 
that  we  men -folks  talk  a  great  deal  of  nonsense 
in  our  denunciations  of  crinoline.  It  is  certain 
that  ladies  were  burnt  to  death  centuries  before 
crinoline  was  ever  heard  of;  to  say  nothing  of 
accidents  by  fire  during  the  periods  when  hooj)- 
petticoats  were  in  abeyance.  It  is  equally  cer- 
tain that  the  victims  to  fire-casualties  are  not  the 
Wearers  of  silk  or  woollen-stuff  over  crinoline  \ 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  123 

but  those  silly  women,  young  and  old,  who, 
through  meanness  or  through  vanity,  persist  in 
wearing  their  widely-distended  framework  with 
muslins  and  tarlatans  in  lieu  of  stouter  fabrics. 
But  the  crinoline  itself,  accepting  it  as  the  gene- 
ric term  for  hencoops  either  of  horsehair,  steel- 
springs,  wire-gauze,  cane,  or  basket-work,  I  hold 
to  be  harmless.  The  ladies  declare  it  to  be  emi- 
nently pleasant  and  convenient.  The  physicians 
say  that  it  is  healthy.  There  used  to  be  no  more 
painful  sight  in  the  streets  on  rainy  days  than 
the  ladies  holding  up  their  flaccid,  drooping, 
splashed,  and  draggled  coats,  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  protect  them  from  the  mud-lava  and  the  fresh- 
ets of  the  gutter.  I  suppose  ladies  are  as  liable 
as  others  folks  to  rheumatic  affections  of  the 
limbs,  through  damp  garments  clinging  to  them. 
I  apprehend,  the  rather,  that  from  this  very 
cause,  thousands  of  hapless  women  have  suffered 
year  after  year  excruciating  agonies,  of  which 
we,  coarse,  selfi-h,  exigent,  intolerant  men  have 
never  recked.  The  ladies  have  a  habit  of  squeal- 
ing out  about  trifles,  and  s  vying  nothing  about 
real  ailments,  which  last  f  ey  endure  with  heroic 
fortitude  and  resignati  n.  Ah,  me  !  how  often 
the  ch  ek  is  quivering  underneath  the  violet 
powder !  How  often  the  blooming  English  belle 
is  undergoing  th?  anguish  of  an  Indian  at  the 
stake ! 


124  BREAKFAST   IK   BED  ;    0E, 

The  lady  who  wrote  in  Queen  Anne's  time  to 
the  editor  of  the  "  Spectator,"  and  asked  him, 
with  crushing  curtness,  what  business  petticoats 
were  of  his,  denied,  a  priori,  the  right  of  the 
ruder  sex  to  meddle  in  the  criticism  of  feminine 
costume  at  all.  Indeed,  I  question  whether  we 
have  any  right  to  discuss  those  articles  of  cos- 
tume which  we  merely  see  ;  but  we  are  entitled 
to  say  a  word  or  two  in  praise  or  dispraise  of 
those  we  really  feel.  For  example,  when  the 
Sheriff  of  Middlesex  comes  down  upon  us,  apro- 
pos of  Madam's  point-lace,  parasols,  double- 
width  glaces,  and  innumerable  bonnets.  We 
feel  that. 

Again  :  when  our  shins  are  in  a  state  of  per- 
manent ecchymosis,  from  the  bobbing  and  rasp- 
ing of  watch-spring  crinolines  there  against,  every 
time  we  walk  with  the  adored  one  of  our  heart 
down  Regent  Street.  We  feel  that,  don't  we  ? 
And  when  we  are  stifled  in  omnibuses,  or  hustled 
out  of  our  stall  at  the  theatre,  or  put  to  me  peine 
forte  et  dure  at  dinner-tables,  the  inconvenience 
we  suffer  becomes  to  a  certain  extent  palpable 
and  tangible.  !Not  long  ago,  in  the  wilds  of 
Yorkshire,  I  went  to  church  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing with  a  charming  family  of  young  ladies,  01 
whose  worthy  papa  I  was  the  unworthy  guest. 
(P)ease  not  to  insert  this  in  the  "  New  York 
Eavesdropper,"  to  the  intent  of  my  being  brand- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  125 

ed  six  months  afterwards,  in  the  columns  of  the 
"  Asafoetida  Eeview,"  as  a  dastardly  betrayer  of 
the  secrets  of  the  Lares  and  Penates.)  The 
church  was  open,  you  see,  to  everybody,  although 
I  went  in  the  family-pew  ;  and  ninety-nine  hun- 
dredths of  the  females  among  the  congregation 
wore  crinoline.  A  nice  time  I  had  of  it.  My 
four  fellow-worshippers  made  as  many  "cheeses" 
of  crinoline  around  me.  There  was  no  way  out 
of  it.  Oh,  for  Lord  Ebury  to  have  shortened 
this  one  particular  morning  service  !  There  was 
so  much  distended  whalebone  about  me,  that  I 
felt  myself  off  the  coast  of  Greenland  ;  a  mere 
tub,  thrown  out  for  young  whales.  I  could u't 
move  ;  I  couldn't  feel  my  hassock  or  my  pocket- 
handkerchief.  It  was  a  continual  uprising  and 
down-plumping  of  crinoline.  I  was  a  miserable 
man.  The  sermon  was  an  excellent  one  ;  but  I 
couldn't  hear  it.  The  singing  was  unusually 
good,  for  a  country  church ;  but  it  grated  on  my 
ears.  I  shall  never  forget  the  agony  of  that  ex- 
perience of  the  Litany  under  the  influence  of  ex- 
aggerated crinoline.  I  could  enlarge  on  my 
woes  ;  but  desist,  for  fear  of  being  Spurgeon- 
esque.  Hircius,  who  is  most  orthodox,  and  was 
a  church-rate  martyr  in  1836,  just  before  he  was 
bankrupt  in  the  corn-and-coal  line,  would  be 
shocked  at  my  profanity  ;  and  Spungius,  who 
married  a  pew-opener  when  the  secularist  cheese* 


126  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

monger's  widow  had  thrown  him  over,  would 
never  forgive  me. 

But,  granting  the  aches  and  pains,  pecuniary 
and  personal,  which  may  afflict  the  descendants 
of  Adam  through  the  addictedness  to  preposter- 
ous skirts  of  the  daughters  of  Eve,  I  say  boldly 
that  the  old  garments  of  the  ladies  were  quite 
as  productive  of  mental  and  physical  discomforts 
to  us  and  to  themselves.  How  about  the  frocks 
of  1830,  worn  high  up  above  the  ankles  ?  How 
about  the  monstrous  ladies'  hats,  that  knocked 
our  own  off,  and  took  up  all  the  room  inside  the 
Brighton  "  Highflyer  ?"  Discourse  unto  me,  I 
pray  thee,  concerning  those  hideous  bishop  and 
leg-o'-mutton  sleeves,  forever  flapped  on  our 
faces,  or  dabbled  in  the  gravy  at  dinner.  Con- 
jure up  again  the  shawls  you  were  always  called 
upon  to  pin  behind,  the  sandal  shoe-strings 
that  were  always  becoming  untied  ;  to  say  no- 
thing— well,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  mention- 
ing it. 

Every  gentleman  whose  wife  has  not  kept  a 
lady's  maid  has  been  called  upon,  in  the  old  time, 
to  lace  a  lady's  corset.  In  Haydn's  song  a  young 
lady  is  desired  by  her  mamma  to  "  lace  her  bod- 
dice  blue"  herself;  but  in  married  life  Benedict 
used  to  be,  with  perfect  propriety,  called  upon 
to  perform  that  cheerful  oflice.  I  say,  used  to 
be  ;  for  the  days  of  stay-tyranny  are  happily  gone 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  127 

by.  Many  ladles  have  abandoned  the  use  of  cor- 
sets altogether ;  while,  for  those  who  still  adhere 
to  these  adjuncts  to  feminine  symmetry,  cunning 
Parisian  corsetiercs  have  devised  on  anatomico- 
physiologico-hygienic  principles,  natty  little  struc- 
tures, of  elastic  nature,  which  are  hooked-and- 
eyed,  or  buttoned  or  strapped,  and  slipped  on  and 
off,  with  the  extremest  comfort  and  despatch. 
Benedict  is  not  called  upon  to  lace  Beatrice's 
stays  now.  Let  us  be  joyful.  Young  English 
ladies  used  to  kill  themselves  in  the  attempt  to 
have  wasp- waists.  Dreadful  stories  used  to  be 
told  of  English  mothers  forcing  their  daughters 
to  wear  suffocating,  chest-compressing,  rib- crush- 
ing stays,  by  night  and  by  day,  or  strapping  them 
up  to  the  bedpost,  to  get  a  better  purchase  while 
they  laced  them.  And  how  hideous,  after  all, 
were  the  hour-glass  bodices,  the  wasp-waists? 
A  very  famous  English  artist  made  the  other  day, 
I  am  told,  par  fantaisie,  a  drawing  of  the  Yenus 
de  Medicis  as  she  stands  in  Florence — "  to  en- 
chant the  world" — and  the  Yenus  in  stays  and 
crinoline.  Under  the  last-named  aspect  she 
looked  frightful.  Hogarth  tried  an  analogous 
experiment  in  one  of  his  prints ;  and  you  may 
see  a  Yenus  in  a  hoop  in  the  background  of  the 
picture  of  "  Modern  Polite  Conversation." 

Every  schoolgirl  knows  that  the  rage  for  hoops, 
panzers,  or  marquises,  as   they  were  distinctly 


128 


called,  was  quite  as  fierce  a  century  and  a  half 
ago  as  in  our  own  time.  The  ladies'  brocaded 
sacks  were  quite  as  ample,  if  not  ampler,  than 
our  own  moire  antiques. 

c  But  just  dwell  for  a  moment  on  the  very  long 
duration  of  the  huge-skirt  mode.  Hoops  in  some 
form  or  another  lasted  from  the  time  of  Queen 
Anne  to  the  middle  of  the  reign  of  George  the 
Third — for  at  least  seventy  years.  And  don't  sup- 
pose that  crinoline  in  good  Queen  Anne's  time  was 
quite  a  new  thing.  The  portraits  of  Titian  and 
Parmegiano  show  that  the  dames  of  the  middle 
ages  understood  to  its  very  base  the  secret  of  ex- 
uberant skirts.  Look  at  Zucchero's  picture  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  and  consider  the  kirtles  and 
farthingales  of  her  maids-of-honor,  all  stuffed  and 
bombasted  out  with  silk  and  wadding.  Crino- 
line in  some  guise  or  another  will  endure,  I  am 
afraid,  for  years  after  I  have  been  measured  for 
my  last  surtout — elm,  plain,  richly  studded  with 
japanned  nails — and  skirts  will  be  worn  a  la — ■ 
Halloa !  what's  that  ?  Silence  that  dreadful 
bell!  I  know  it  too  well ;  and  the  dubious  fe- 
male party  with  the  mysterious  parcel  (shaped 
and  pinned  as  no  other  parcel  on  earth  is  pinned 
and  shaped),  who  glides  upstairs  and  looks  at  me 
askance,  as  a  creature  to  be  loathed  and  scorned 
until  it  is  time  for  him  to  pay  a  certain  little  bill. 
Thank  goodness,  I  am  safe  in  Bed,  and  at  Break- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  129 

fast-time  she  cannot  blight  me  with  her  baleful 
glances.  Skirts  are  worn  a  la  Euination ;  and 
that  confounded  ring  at  the  bell  must  be  from 
Somebody's  Dressmaker. 


6* 


130  BREAKFAST   IN  BED  ;    OB, 


ON  THE  CONDITION  OF  MY  POOR  FEET. 

"  Joseph,"  once  said  a  wise  man,  who  had  just 
been  utterly  ruined  and  overthrown  in  the  battle 
of  life,  to  his  attached  man-servant,  "  I  am  going 
to  bed.  You  will  give  me,  if  you  please,  forty 
drops  of  laudanum  on  a  lump  of  sugar,  and  you 
will  wake  me  up  the  day  after  to-morrow.  After 
that  we  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

There  is  nothing  like  going  to  bed  under  try- 
ing circumstances,  and  stopping  there.  If  nature 
has  not  endowed  yon  with  a  somnolent  faculty — 
if  you  don't,  to  your  misfortune,  belong  to  the 
great  order  of  sleepy -heads — you  had  best  take 
the  laudanum  on  the  lump  of  sugar,  as  per  recipe 
foregoing.  But  I  earnestly  recommend  you  to 
sleep  npon  it.  Stay  in  bed  as  long  as  ever  you 
can.  The  world  must  go  round ;  and  perhaps 
your  affairs,  having  come  to  the  worst,  may  take 
a  turn  with  it.  If  you  wake,  turn  over  on  to 
t'other  side,  and  go  to  sleep  again  and  again, 
until  you  find  yourself  so  hungry  that  you  must 
needs  leap  out  of  bed  and  proceed  to  devour  some- 
thing or  somebody.  That  same  great  order  of 
sleepy  -heads,  to  whom  I  have  just  alluded,  are, 


1 

PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  13i 

after  all,  the  people  who  get  on  best  in  the  world. 
They  don't  "fash"  themselves.  They  fret  not 
themselves  because  of  the  ungodly*  They  just 
pull  their  night-caps  over  their  brows,  shut  their 
eyes,  find  out  the  cosiest  corner  in  the  undula- 
tions of  the  pillow,  and  take  forty  times,  or  forty 
thousand  times,  forty  winks ;  and  at  their  upris- 
ing the  odds  are  forty  to  one  that,  desperate  as 
things  seemed  when  they  fell  a-snoozing,  they 
have  now  mended.  Caesar — J.  Caesar  of  Rome, 
as  poor  crazy  Mr.  Train  used  to  call  that  con- 
queror— desired  to  have  men  about  him  that 
were  fat,  and  such  as  slept  <? nights.  He  liked 
not  yon  Cassius,  who  had  a  "  lean  and  hungry  " 
— and  a  wakeful  look,  you  may  be  sure.  Do  you 
think  Lord  Paknerston  would  remain,  at  seventy- 
nine,  our  "  ever  versatile,  vivacious,  and  juvenile 
Premier,"  if  he  didn't  fold  his  arms,  tilt  his  hat 
on  to  the  tip  of  his  nose,  tuck  his  legs  under  the 
Treasury  Bench,  and  go  comfortably  to  sleep 
while  the  bores  of  the  Opposition  were  prosing, 
and  Caucasian  serpents  biting  the  file  %  He  wakes 
up  when  the  cistern  of  disparagement  has  fin- 
ished plapping,  and  comes  up  smiling,  and  de- 
molishes his  antagonists  all  round.  There  are 
people  who  habitually  go  to  sleep  in  omnibuses, 
and  on  suburban  railways;  but  I  never  knew 
them  to  miss  their  station,  or  to  fail  in  proguing 
the  conductor  in  the  ribs  at  the  right  moment. 


132  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;   OR, 

There  are  worshippers  who  make  a  point  of  going 
to  sleep  in  church,  be  the  sermon  dullest  or  the 
most  exciting  of  discourses ;  yet  they  always 
know  the  text,  and  are  reckoned  great  judges  of 
orthodoxy.  There  are  people  who  go  to  sleep  at 
the  theatre,  waking  up  only  at  the  conclusion  of 
each  act ;  yet  I  have  frequently  had  occasion  to 
admire  the  terseness  and  acumen  with  which 
they  criticise  the  piece.  And  if  you  will  only 
be  good  enough  to  go  to  sleep  over  the  opening 
paragraph  of  this  present  number  of  Breakfast  in 
Bed,  and,  waking  at  the  end,  declare  it  to  be  the 
best  of  the  series,  I  shall  have  the  very  highest 
respect  for  your  taste  and  discrimination,  and 
shall  be  eternally  grateful  to  you. 

I  say  to  you,  then,  sleep  upon  it !  Good-night, 
Signor  Pantaloon  ;  you  will  be  all  the  better  for 
your  nap  the  day  after  to-morrow  morning.  If 
Yictorine  hadn't  slept  upon  it,  all  the  woes  she 
dreamt  of  might  have  been  realised  in  actual  life. 
"  Sleep,  gentle  lady  !" — slumber  is  good  for  your 
complexion,  your  nerves,  and  your  temper ;  good, 
also,  it  may  be,  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the 
harassed  helot,  Man.  Remember  those  prudent 
young  men  of  Ephesus  during  the  dark  ages. 
They  had  the  sagacity  to  discern  that  there  was 
no  use  in  making  head  against  the  prevailing 
persecution  of  the  Christians :  that  they  would 
take  nothing  by  their  motion  in  being  martyrised. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  133 

What  did  they  do?  They  betook  themselves 
to  a  comfortable  cave,  went  to  sleep,  slept  for 
centuries,  and  woke  up  with  a  tremendous  appe- 
tite for  their  Breakfast  in  Bed,  and  to  find  that 
the  world  had  become  converted  to  the  Christian 
faith. 

I  have  always  thought  that  Napoleon  would 
have  acted  wisely  in  going  to  sleep  for  a  couple 
of  days  or  so  after  his  defeat  at  "Waterloo.  Some- 
thing advantageous  to  Imperialism  might  have 
turned  up  in  the  interim.  Instead  of  indulging  in 
a  tranquil  doze  twice  or  thrice  round  the  clock, 
the  restless  adventurer  must  needs  go  fuming 
about  the  Elysee,  and  chopping  logic  with  Ben- 
jamin Constant,  and  playing  at  cross-purposes 
with  the  Senate  and  the  Legislative  Body  (who, 
being  Frenchmen,  w^ere,  of  course,  intriguing  for 
the  destruction  of  him  whom  they  deemed  aban- 
doned by  Fortune) ;  and  then  Lord  Yilainton, 
and  Field-Marshal  Blucher,  and  Schwarzenburg, 
and  Barclay  de  Tolly,  and  the  whole  horde  of  the 
Allies,  came  up,  and  there  was  an  end  to  Napo- 
leon the  Great,  who  thenceforth  was  privileged 
to  sleep  as  much  as  ever  he  liked  at  St.  Helena 
— a  dreary  siesta,  which  had  no  waking  but  in  a 
miserable  death. 

Some  people — ministers  of  state  and  others — 
forbid  their  servants  to  wake  them  if  good  news 
arrive  while  they  are  asleep.    They  only  desire 


134  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;   OR 

to  be  aroused  if  disastrous  tidings  come.  I  say, 
sleep  on,  through  good  and  through  evil  report. 
Let  the  good  get  better,  and  the  bad  right  itself, 
if  it  can.  Nowhere  is  the  philosophy  of  this 
doctrine  more  forcibly  illustrated  than  in  the 
history  of  Mr.  Moss  Abrahams  and  Mr.  Isaac 
Solomonson. 

Mr.  Moss  Abrahams  had  accepted  a  bill  of  ex- 
change, of  which  Mr.  Isaac  Solomonson  was  the 
holder.  Late  on  the  eve  of  the  acceptance  com- 
ing due,  Mr.  Abrahams  discovered  that  he  was 
destitute  of  funds  wherewith  to  meet  it.  Being 
a  conscientious  and  withal  a  nervous  man,  he  forth- 
with hies  him  to  Mr.  Solomonson's  residence. 
It  was  midnight,  and  the  holder  of  the  bill  had 
long  since  (like  a  wise  man  of  business)  retired  to 
rest.  But  Mr.  Abrahams  wTas  determined  to 
inform  him  of  his  impecuniosity,  and  knocked 
him  up. 

After  a  little  while  his  creditor  put  his  night- 
capped  head  out  of  the  second-floor  window,  and 
demanded,  with  some  asperity,  who  was  there. 

"  It  ish  I,  Mr.  Isaac  Sholomonson,"  responded 
Mr.  Moss  Abrahams. 

"  And  vot  do  you  vant,  Mr.  Mosh  Abrahams, 
at  thish  time  of  nightsh?"  pettishly  asked  Mr. 
Solomonson. 

"O  Mr.  Isaac  Sholomonson,  O  Mr.  Isaac 
Sholomonson  JF  quoth  the  disconsolate  accepter; 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  135 

"  yon.  must  be  told  the  newsh.  There  is  a  billsli 
for  forty-sheven  pound  ten  due  to-morrow,  and 
I  cannot  pay  it.  I  cannot  shleep  for  thinking  of 
it,  Mr.  Sholomonson." 

"  Go  to  the  devilsh !"  cried  out  Mr.  Isaac 
Solomonson,  in  a  rage ;  "  go  to  the  devilsh,  Mr. 
Mosh  Abrahams  !  It  is  I  who  cannot  shleep, 
since  you  cannot  pay  the  billsh!" 

With  which  he  banged  down  the  window,  and 
sued  the  defaulter  next  day,  dreadfully. 

Imprudent  Abrahams  !  if  he  had  gone  to  bed, 
and  allowed  Mr.  Solomonson  to  slumber  undis- 
turbed, that  last-named  worthy  might  have  woke 
next  day  in  a  good  temper,  and  given  his  debtor 
time. 

All  these  are  capital  theories — is  it  not  so  ? — 
but,  like  fine  words,  they  butter  no  parsnips. 
How  about  reducing  them  to  practice  ?  Here  am 
I,  for  instance,  tumbling  and  tossing  on  the  un- 
easy couch  to  which  I  retired  at  one  o'clock  this 
morning ;  and  I  can  obtain  no  rest.  This  is 
Wednesday,  the  eighteenth  day  of  March.  Since 
Friday  night  the  sixth,  I  have  had,  perhaps,  about 
one-seventeenth  part  of  the  natural  rest  without 
which,  the  doctors  tell,  and  nature  warns  us, 
human  beings  are  apt  to  go  raving  mad.  I  have 
been  to  bed  over  and  over  again.  I  have  carried 
my  slumberousness  about  with  me,  as  Christian, 
in  Bunyan's  allegory,  did  his  burden  of  sins ;  but 


136  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;   OE, 

I  cannot  depose  that  grim  fardel.  Leaden  weights 
hang  to  mine  eyelids  ;  but  they  refuse  to  recog- 
nise the  laws  of  gravity,  and  quiescence  will  not 
shake  them  off.  I  can  sleep  a  little  standing ;  but 
refreshing  slumbers  desert  me  when  I  lie  down. 
I  can  doze  in  cabs  and  railway-carriages  ;  but  in 
bed  I  am  horribly  wakeful.  I  think  it  would  do 
me  good  if  I  went  to  sleep  for  a  fortnight.  I  seem 
to  have  been  in  bed  for  six  months,  but  no  good 
has  yet  come  of  it.  My  Breakfast  lies  untasted 
before  me,  and  half  a  dozen  times  I  have  all  but 
kicked  the  tray  off  the  bed.  I  am  the  Weasel ; 
but,  oh,  how  grateful  I  should  be  if  somebody 
could  only  just  catch  me  napping,  and  shave  my 
eye-brows  off. 

I  know  what  it  is  this  time ;  I  know  what  pre- 
vents me  obtaining  even  the  eight  hours'  bare 
rest  which  are  said  to  be  requisite  for  a  Fool !  O 
my  kind  friends !  it  isn't  a  question  of  liver  ;  it 
isn't  pancreas ;  it  isn't  devilled  kidneys ;  it  isn't 
pork-chops  for  supper;  it  isn't  that  other  glass  of 
Moselle — I  have  subsisted  chiefly  on  blotting- 
paper,  quill-pens,  and  abernethy-biscuits  these 
ten  days  past ;  it  isn't  conscience — I  haven't  rob- 
bed a  church,  or  murdered  one  of  my  blood-rela- 
tions ;  since  "Wednesday  week  I  have  stolen  noth- 
ing but  precious  days  from  my  life  ;  I  have  de- 
frauded nobody  but  Nature ;  I  have  murdered 
nothing  but  the  Queen's  English.     What  is  it, 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  137 

then,  that  makes  my  bed  a  rack,  and  my  coun- 
terpane red-hot  coals,  and  my  breakfast  loath- 
some, and  myself  intolerable  to  me  ?  It  is  the 
condition  of  my  Poor  Feet. 

Well,  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  immodest  (even 
in  this  wonderfully  nice-spoken  age)  in  confessing 
that  I  am  afflicted  with  corns,  defying  the  most 
recondite  efforts  of  pedicurism.  Hannah  More 
was  troubled,  I  have  been  given  to  understand, 
with  bunions — and  yet  she  was  a  good  woman. 
The  greatest  statesmen  in  this  cons!  i  tutional  coun- 
try have  suffered  from  the  gout.  If  it  be  a  crime 
to  be  hereditarily  podagrous,  take  me  to  the 
Tower  and  clap  me  into  the  bilboes  at  once. 
Then,  again,  as  to  varicose  veins.  Is  a  man  irre- 
trievably  ruined,  in  a  moral  sense,  if  he  be  sub- 
ject to  that  last-named  ailment?  If  such  be  the 
case,  put  me  down  as  a  lost  one.  Finally,  there 
is  such  a  condition  of  frame  known  in  the  language 
of  the  vulgar  as  being  "weak  on  the  pins."  I 
am  feeble  on  the  supporters.  I  don't  like  walk- 
ing. "When  I  do  pedestrianise,  my  unlucky  legs 
are  always  carrying  me  to  the  wrong  places,  and 
wretchedness  and  misfortune  congregate  like 
shards  and  pebbles  beneath  my  poor  feet. 

Within  the  last  few  days  I  have  been  asked  at 
least  a  thousand  times  how  those  poor  feet  were. 
The  interrogation  would  not  have  troubled  me 
had  it  been  put  in  a  kindly,  in  a  sympathizing 


138  BREAKFAST   IX   BED  ;    OK, 

spirit,  and  by  people  I  knew ;  but  how  would 
you  like  a  screeching  multitude,  fifty  thousand 
strong,  and  with  not  one  of  whom,  to  the  best  of 
your  knowledge,  you  had  even  a  bowing  ac- 
quaintance, to  vociferate  in  your  track — in  the 
public  street,  mind — "  Ya-a-a-h !  how  are  your 
poor  feet  ?"  1  know  how  my  poor  feet  are  by 
this  time.  My  brothers,  they  are  swollen  to  the 
size  and  consistency  of  pumpkins.  I  feel  that  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  put  them  to  the  ground 
again.  Henceforth  I  must  go  abroad  in  a  bowl, 
like  a  cul  cle  jatte,  or  on  a  trolly,  with  a  pair  of 
leaden  dumps  to  steady  myself,  or  in  a  go-cart, 
or  in  a  sedan-chair. 

My  poor  feet  have  been  stamped  and  trodden 
upon  by  innumerable  feet.  The  hoofs  of  Her 
Majesty's  Household  Cavalry  have  passed  over 
me.  Those  hoofs  have  made  painful  indentations 
on  the  softest  parts  of  my  anatomy.  I  have  been 
kicked  and  beaten  ;  I  have  been  knocked  down 
and  trampled  upon  ;  I  have  been  rolled  into  the 
gutter ;  I  have  been  charged  by  the  Eoyal 
Horse  Artillery ;  I  have  been  under  the  car- 
riage-wheels of  the  Corporation  of  London.  The 
metropolitan  police  have  assaulted  me  ;  eighteen 
times  have  I  been  garotted  by  the  hands  of 
authority  gone  out  of  its  mind.  I  am  one  bruise. 
Ecchymosis  and  I  are  synonymous. 

Stop !  my  poor  feet  are  not  quite  so  large  as 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  139 

pumpkins.  There  must  be  exaggeration  in  such 
a  simile.  But  can  you  imagine  the  condition  of 
a  wretched  Egyptian  fellah  who  has  just  had  an 
interview  with  the  Cadi,  and  who,  according  to 
the  pugnant  expression  of  Eastern  penal  jurispru- 
dence, has  just  "  eaten  stick  "  for  non-payment 
of  taxes,  that  is  to  say,  has  undergone  the  agony 
of  the  bastinado,  till  the  soles  of  his  feet  are 
reduced  to  pulp  ?  I  have  read  in  the  book  of  a 
French  tourist,  how,  after  one  of  these  banquets 
of  stick,  the  miserable  victim  of  fiscal  ruthless- 
ness  has  crawled  out  of  the  Hall  of  Justice  on 
his  hands  and  knees,  grovelling  and  wallowing 
his  way  along,  till,  reaching  the  outside  of  the 
court,  his  pitying  relatives  have  enveloped  his 
poor  feet  in  vine-leaves  smeared  with  olive-oil, 
and  swathed  them  in  linen  bandages,  and  borne 
him  home,  moaning,  on  their  shoulders. 

To  such  a  state  do  my  poor  feet  approximate ; 
yet  wretcheder  I  than  the  Egyptian,  or  "  any 
other  fellah,"  for  I  had  nobody  to  carry  me 
home,  and  the  cabs  on  Saturday  night  refused  to 
budge  under  five  shillings  a  mile.  There  wasn't 
a  Ryal  Hentry  hevery  day  in  the  year,  they 
said. 

The  manner  of  its  coming  about — of  my  poor 
feet  being  gelatinized,  I  mean — was  this.  Yield- 
ing to  the  representations  of  some  very  good 
friends  of  mine,  who,  with  infinite  pleasure  to  the 


140  BREAKFAST    IN    BED  J    OR, 

public,  aud  great  profit  to  themselves,  conduct  a 
daily  newspaper  of  large  circulation,  I  consented 
for  some  twenty-four  hours  to  abdicate  the  honor- 
able position  of  a  rent-and-tax  paying  English 
gentleman,  and  to  become  a  penny-a-liner.  Now 
there  is  nothing  intrinsically  despicable  in  the 
status  of  the  meritorious  and  useful  individuals 
whose  more  courteous  designation  is  that  of 
"  occasional  reporters,"  and  who  furnish  graphic, 
and  in  the  main  truthful,  narratives  of  fires,  mur- 
ders, accidents,  and  Lord-Mayor  shows,  for  a 
certain  sum  of  copper,  per  line,  for  publication 
in  the  columns  of  the  metropolitan  press.  These 
chroniclers,  whether  they  be  paid  at  the  rate  of 
a  penny,  or  three-halfpence,  or  twopence-half- 
penny a  line,  form  an  exceedingly  industrious, 
inoffensive,  and  intelligent  class,  and  are  often 
much  better  worth  their  salt  than  more  preten- 
tious scribblers — I  name  no  names — who  are 
remunerated  for  their  lucubrations  at  the  rate  of 
five  guineas  a  page.  But  the  gluttonous,  bibu- 
lous, inconstant,  ungrateful  British  public  have 
taken  it  into  their  conceited  heads  that  an  occa- 
sional reporter  is  necessarily  a  ragged  creature, 
with  a  soiled  note-booh,  a  battered  hat,  and  a 
bulging  umbrella  ;  a  kind  of  cross  between  Paul 
Pry,  a  detective  policeriran,  and  a  man  in  pos- 
session ;  that  he  is  poor  and  miserable,  as  well 
as  humble  and  obscure ;  and   that  it  is  there- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  141 

fore    expedient    to    laugh    at    and    to    despise 
him. 

Only  the  other  day,  travelling  by  the  South- 
Western  Railway,  I  overheared  a  gross,  muddle- 
headed,  City  kind  of  man,  swelling  with  an  over- 
weening sense  of  his  own  importance,  criticising 
the  account  of  the  marriage  of  the  Prince  of 
"Wales,  which  had  appeared  that  morning  in  the 
"  Times  "  newspaper. 

"  What  stuff  these  penny-a-liners  do  write  to 
be  sure  I"  quoth  my  gross  vis-d-vis  to  his  neigh- 
bor. It  would  have  been  as  much  probably  as 
either  of  them  could  do  in  the  literary  line  to 
have  written  "cash,  Dr.;  contra,  Cr.,"  at  the 
head  of  a  ledger,  having  reference  to  transactions 
in  cheese  or  black-lead.  The  "  penny-a-liners  " 
whose  "stuff"  excited  their  ineffable  spleen, 
happened  to  have  been,  on  the  one  part,  a  gen- 
tleman who  was  "  the  Pen  of  the  War  "  through- 
out the  .Crimean  campaign,  during  the  Indian 
Mutiny,  and  in  the  early  and  most  momentous 
episodes  of  the  American  struggle.  On  the  ban- 
ner of  William  Howard  Russell  (who  was  in 
the  nave  of  St.  George's  Chapel  at  the  Prince's 
marriage)  are  emblazoned  the  words  "  Sebasto- 
pol,"  "  Cawnpore,"  and  "  Potomac."  His  com- 
rade, Mr.  Nicholas  Woods  (who  was  in  the 
gallery  overlooking  the  choir),  is,  although 
younger,   as  familiar   as   he  with   battles   and 


142  BREAKFAST   IN    BED  ;    OB, 

shipwrecks,  with  peril,  with  hardship,  and  with 
disease.  These  men  have  gone  through  all  that 
the  most  approved  warriors  can  endure.  They 
have  confronted  death  in  every  shape ;  they 
have  made  famous  the  achievements  of  their 
countrymen  all  over  the  world ;  and,  in  conso- 
nance with  an  agreeable  and  highly  practical 
code  of  Social  Law,  not  a  star  glitters  on  their 
breasts,  not  a  whisper  of  their  names  is  made  in 
a  despatch  or  a  gazette  ;  and  their  sole  reward — 
beyond  the  applause  of  the  select  few  who  know 
their  worth — is  to  be  called  "  penny-a-liners " 
by  a  fat,  ignorant  cheesemonger ;  ay,  and  the 
taunt  can  be  as  glibly  and  impudently  and  men- 
daciously repeated  by  thousands  who  are  neither 
fat,  nor  ignorant,  nor  cheesemongers. 

Well,  I  took  up  my  pilgrim's  staff  and  scrip 
cheerfully,  and  1  agreed,  as  a  "penny-a-liner," 
in  the  caseous  acceptation  of  the  term,  to  write 
an  account  of  the  entry  of  the  Princess  Alexan- 
dra into  London.  I  was  to  take  the  procession 
up  at  London  Bridge,  and  to  follow  its  course  as 
far  as  Pall  Mall ;  and  as  I  did  not  happen  to  be 
capable,  like  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  bird,  of  being  in 
two  places  at  once,  and  furthermore,  as,  by 
remaining  stationary  either  at  the  Bridge,  or 
at  the  Mansion  House,  or  at  a  window  in 
Cheapside,  or  in  the  gallery  at  St.  Paul's,  or 
in  Fleet    Street,  or    the    Strand,   or  Trafalgar 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN  THE    SHEETS.  14B 

Square,  I  could  have  seen  the  pageant  only  as  a 
passing  vision,  and  should  have  missed  its  most 
astonishing  framework,  the  crowd — it  was  ar- 
ranged that  I  should  follow  in  its  wake  along 
the  streets  from  the  confines  of  the  City  to  the 
West  End.  How  to  do  so  without  let  or  hind- 
rance was  a  chief  object  of  solicitude.  The 
police  along  the  line  of  route  were  first  to  be 
thought  of  by  one  who  didn't  wish  to  be  knocked 
down  or  taken  into  custody  for  intruding  himself 
where  he  had  no  business  to  be. 

I  conceived  that,  in  the  interest  of  the  public, 
who  would  be  crazy  to  read  a  complete  account 
of  the  royal  entry  in  the  newspapers  on  Monday 
morning,  I  had  more  than  a  right — I  had  an 
absolute  call — to  see  as  much  of  the  procession 
as  I  possibly  could.  So  I  addressed  myself  to 
Captain  Hodgson,  the  acting  Commissioner  of 
the  City  Police,  and  obtained  from  that  courteous 
but  overworked  functionary  a  buff  card,  empow- 
ering "  bearer  to  pass  along  the  line  on  foot." 
A  similar  card,  but  white  in  hue,  had  been  pro- 
cured for  me  from  the  Commissioner  of  Metro- 
politan Police  ;  but  wishing  to  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  I  wrote  on  Friday  afternoon  a  pretty 
litle poulet  to  Sir  Kichard  Mayne,  at  his  bower 
by  Whitehall,  stating  who  I  was,  the  nature  of 
the  essentially  public  service  I  had  undertaken 
to  perform,   the   need    there   was    for    persons 


144:  BREAKFAST   IN  BED;    OR, 

representing  the  daily  newspapers  to  be  per- 
mitted to  circulate  unimpeded  from  point  to 
point,  and  sundry  little  gentillesses  of  that 
description. 

Sir  Richard  Mayne,  K.C.B.,  sent  me,  by  the 
commissionnaire  attached  to  the  clnb  of  which  I 
am  a  humble  member,  his  compliments  and 
another  card,  with,  "  To  the  police  along  the 
line.  Pass  the  bearer  on  foot. — Richard  Mayne ;" 
the  pasteboard  stamped  with  the  royal  arms,  and 
the  whole  enclosed  in  the  handsomest  official 
envelope  it  has  ever  been  my  privilege  to  gaze 
upon.  "  Come,"  I  said,  with  premature  compla- 
cency, "  who  shall  accuse  les  gens  de  la  police  of 
want  of  courtesy  after  this  ?"  Alas,  I  little  knew 
what  was  to  happen  to  my  poor  feet ! 

1  was  up  the  next  morning  by  seven,  prepared 
for  a  leisurely  promenade  along  the  streets,  well- 
lined  and  kept  by  policemen,  soldiers,  and  volun- 
teers, from  the  Bricklayers'  Arms  to  Padclington. 
Suddenly  there  arrived  a  missive  from  a  friend, 
who  had  likewise  accepted  the  mission  of  a  penny- 
a-liner.  "  The  Corporation  of  London,"  he  wrote, 
"  have  permitted  the  representatives  of  the  press 
to  follow  the  civic  procession  in  an  open  carriage. 
There  is  a  place  reserved  for  you  in  a  landau, 
which  will  convey  you  as  far  as  Temple  Bar ;  after 
that  (the  civic  cortege  filing  up  Chancery  Lane) 
you  must  shift  for  yourself.     Moreover,  the  Lord 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  145 

Mayor  and  the  Eeception  Committee  will  be 
happy  to  see  you  to  breakfast  at  Guildhall,  at 
half-past  ten  o'clock  precisely." 

Need  I  say  that  I  didn't  Breakfast  in  Bed  on 
the  morning  of  Saturday,  the  7th  of  March?  I 
like  breakfasting  with  Corporations.  It  makes 
you,  for  the  time,  feel  wealthy  and  substantial. 
My  friend  with  the  landau  happened  to  be  a 
neighbor ;  so  blithely  I  trudged  from  the  Square 
of  Kussell  to  the  Square  of  Brunswick,  and  at  the 
portal  of  one  of  the  mansions  therein,  I  found  the 
carriage,  "  drawn  by  two  noble  steeds."  It  was 
like  going  to  the  Derby,  only  the  hamper  was  to 
be  found  by  the  Fathers  of  the  City.  We  started 
about  nine,  with  a  full  complement  of  ladies, 
children,  and  gentlemen.  The  former  we  were  to 
drop  in  divers  localities  in  the  City,  whence  the 
procession  could  be  witnessed.  The  founder  of 
the  feast— I  mean  of  the  landau— left  us  in  King 
"William  Street,  being  bound  for  Gravesend, 
where  he  was  to  witness  the  disembarkation  of 
the  Princess. 

Even  at  this  early  period  of  the  morning  the 
streets  were  almost  impassable,  and  it  was  a 
quarter  past  ten  ere  we  reached  the  entrance  to 
Guildhall  Yard.  In  Guildhall  I  found  three 
gentlemen  who  were  to  be  my  companions  in  the 
famous  landau:  one  was  an  eloquent  and  de- 
servedly popular  London  clergyman  ;  the  second 
7 


146  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OE, 

was  a  dramatist  and  essayist  of  repute  ;  the  third 
was  a  barrister,  writer  of  leading  articles,  and 
habitue  of  the  Reporters'  Gallery  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  Nay,  the  landau  was  to  hold  five- 
Place  number  four  was  to  be  occupied  by  a 
gentleman  from  the  "  Times ;"  and  the  fifth  per- 
sonage in  the  triumphant  chariot  was  to  be  the 
hapless  orphan  with  the  poor  feet  who  has  now 
the  melancholy  pleasure  to  address  you.  For  the 
nonce  we  were  all  penny-a-liners.  Briefly  will 
I  dismiss  the  breakfast  in  Guildhall,  albeit  it  was 
the  only  event  throughout  the  day  that  was  un- 
mingled  with  agony. 

The  Corporation  comported  themselves,  as 
they  always  do,  with  hospitality  and  politeness. 
They  gave  me  a  hearty  welcome,  and  a  bridal 
favor  as  big  as  a  pancake.  I  might  have  feasted 
upon  game-pie,  foie  gras,  cold  turkey,  Moselle, 
blanc-mange,  and  other  delicacies,  had  they  not 
all  entered  into  the  grim  Index  Expurgatorius  of 
my  medical  attendant.  But  everything  looked 
rosy-colored :  Aldermen  in  cocked  hats ;  Com- 
mon Councilmen  in  furred  gowns ;  the  City  Mar- 
shal as  large  as  life ;  the  ward-beadles  with  their 
gilt  pokers  ;  the  Lord  Mayor's  state  footmen  ;  the 
deputy-lieutenants  in  their  scarlet  and  silver.  All 
this,  combined  with  hand-shaking,  snuff-taking, 
the  pinning-on  of  favors,  and  the  popping  of 
champagne-corks,  conduced  to  a  feeling  of  exhilfv- 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  147 

ration  easier  to  be  imagined  than  described.  You 
see  that  I  have  adopted,  with  cheerful  alacrity, 
the  penny-a-liner's  style. 

"We  didn't  get  on  very  well  with  our  landau. 
"We  found  it  waiting  for  us  at  the  bottom  of 
Aldermanbury,  after  breakfast;  but  as  it  hap- 
pened to  be  at  the  precise  tail-end  of  the  pro- 
cession, and  there  were  some  hundreds  more  open 
carriages  before  us,  all  crammed  with  dignitaries 
of  the  Corporation  and  the  City  guilds,  and  all 
jammed  up,  apparently  inextricably,  in  a  com- 
pact mass,  the  chance  of  our  getting  to  London 
Bridge,  or  to  the  Mansion  House,  or  to  Cheapside, 
or  to  anywhere  else  on  this  side  Ultima  Thule, 
became,  by  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  exceed- 
ing shady,  not  to  say  hopeless.  We — the  clergy- 
man, the  barrister,  the  dramatist,  and  the  "  Times  " 
man — bore  it  as  long  as  we  could  ;  but  when  the 
probability  of  the  Princess's  having  arrived,  hav- 
ing passed  through  Temple  Bar,  and  being  full 
trot  on  her  way  to  Paddington,  assumed  more 
and  more  tangible  proportions,  we  began  to  grow 
nervous  for  the  welfare  of  the  public,  of  our  pro- 
prietors and  ourselves.  First  we  made  jests  about 
the  immovable  landau  ;  then  we  grumbled  at 
its  immobility  ;  then  we  devoted  it  wholesale  to 
perdition. 

Finally  we  abandoned  it  to  its  fate ;  and 
telling  the  coachman  to  pick  us  up  wherever  lie 


148  BREAKFAST  IN  BED;   OK, 

could  find  us  in  the  line  of  procession,  we  made 
our  way  to  Guildhall  again,  pushing,  grinding, 
and  jostling  through  the  well-packed  throng,  and 
found  the  head  of  the  civic  train  just  about 
moving. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  inconceivable  jumbles 
of  brass-bands,  rifle  volunteers,  policemen  on 
horseback  and  policemen  on  foot,  horse-artillery- 
men, aldermen,  common  councilmen,  javelin-men, 
watermen,  standard-bearers,  ticket-porters,  and 
long-shore  men,  that  was  ever  visible  out  of  the 
phantasmagoric  vision  of  a  raving  maniac,  with 
superadded  delirium  tremens,  who  has  been 
supping  on  raw  pork-chops  with  Mr.  Home  the 
medium,  and  reading  Hoffmann's  Tales,  and  the 
"  Woman  in  "White "  to  the  accompaniment  of 
cavendish  tobacco  and  strong  green  tea.  My 
poor  feet  began  to  suffer.  Once  or  twice  I  was 
lifted  off  them  bodily,  and  then  asked  in  indig- 
nant terms,  "  vere  I  vos  a  shovin'  to  V  I  shoved 
at  last  into  the  midst  of  a  group  of  ancient  per- 
sons clad  in  red-baize  jerkins,  with  pewter 
platters  on  the  breasts  thereof,  jockey-caps,  knee- 
smalls,  and  white  stockings,  with  ankle-jacks  a  la 
"  Eoberto  Pulveroso,"  or  «  Dusty  Bob."  These 
strange  and  weird  creatures  all  carried  banners 
covered  with  heraldic  emblazonments  of  anti- 
quated aspect.  On  inquiry,  I  found  one  of  them 
to  contain  the  arms  of  the  "late  Sheriff  Cow- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  149 

dery."  Who  was  Cowdeiy,  and  when  did  he 
die? 

Another  bore  the  cognizance  of  "the  late 
Countess  of  Kent."  "Why,  bless  me !  that  must 
have  been  Joan,  the  fair  countess,  who  married 
Edward  the  Black  Prince  !  That  comely  widow 
has  been  dead  something  considerably  over  five 
hundred  years. 

These  venerable  standard-bearers  seemed  to 
belong  to  another  world.  In  two  points  only 
could  they  claim  affinity  to  the  present  century. 
Knee-breeches,  cotton  stockings,  and  ankle-jacks, 
for  the  first,  were  not  habitually  worn  in  the 
Middle  Ages ;  and  for  the  second,  these,  weird 
servitors  all  smelt  strongly  of  rum,  a  spirit 
which  was  hardly  popular  as  a  stimulant  in  this 
country  previous  to  the  colonization  of  the  West 
Indies. 

However,  in  a  common  crush  we  are  all  equal. 
Clergyman,  barrister,  dramatist,  journalist,  and 
standard-bearers — we  all  trudged  on,  a  band  of 
brothers. 

Nay,  there  even  affiliated  himself  unto  us  a 
gentleman  in  corduroy,  much  japanned  with 
grease,  and  wearing  the  shockingest  hat  I  have 
gazed  upon  for  many  a  day.  He  smelt  even  more 
powerfully  of  rum  than  the  ancient  standard- 
bearers,  to  one  of  whom  he  stood  in  the  relation 
of  brother-in-law,   or    of  bosom  friend,   or  of 


150  BEEAKFAST   IN   BED;    OB, 

"  mate,"  though  out  of  civic  costume.  When 
his  friend  was  tired,  he  carried  his  banner  for  him 
— indeed  I  did  as  much  for  another  weazened  old 
mortal  in  red  baize ;  but  he  was  careless  as  to 
how  he  carried  it ;  and  he  napped  the  silk  in  my 
eyes,  and  occasionally  stood  the  pole  at  ease  on 
my  poor  feet  with  the  utmost  insouciance. 

He  was  moreover  quarrelsome  in  demeanor, 
unsteady  in  his  gait,  and  decidedly  not  choice  in 
his  language.  On  the  whole,  I  hope  to  be  dis- 
pensed, for  some  time  to  come,  from  the  compa- 
nionship of  such  a  drunken,  abusive  vagabond  as 
the  gentleman  in  corduroy  proved  himself  to  be. 

My  agonies  continued  literally  from  morn  to 
dewy  eve,  for  it  rained  cats  and  dogs  before  six 
p.m.  How  I  managed  to  squeeze  on  to  London 
Bridge,  and,  when  the  Prince  and  Princess  had 
passed,  to  squeeze  off  it  again  ;  howl  was  jostled 
through  the  City,  and  fairly  knocked  down  at 
Temple  Bar,  ground  against  the  walls  of  that 
structure,  and  galloped  over  by  a  squadron  of 
Dragoons ;  how  the  Metropolitan  Police  exhi- 
bited an  utter  indifference  to  Sir  Richard 
Mayne's  passport,  and  vehemently  informed  me 
that  I  should  not  pass  along  the  line  on  foot — 
whereupon  I  as  vehemently  declared  that  I 
must  and  would  pass,  and  dared  them  to  take 
me  into  custody,  and  defied  them  to  mortal  com- 
bat— which    physically  I    got  lamentably  the 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  151 

worst  of,  but  was  morally  victorious,  for  I 
gained  my  end,  and  got  from  Temple  Bar  to 
Pall  Mall,  five  minutes  after  the  royal  carriage 
had  passed ;  how  at  last,  bruised,  bleeding,  ex- 
hausted, and  blacker  than  any  sweep,  I  saw,  in 
the  gallery  erected  in  front  of  a  certain  pala- 
tial edifice  in  Pall  Mall,  the  bonnet  of  the  wife 
of  my  bosom  ;  how,  my  out-of-door  task  being 
over,  I  mentally  bade  the  royal  procession  go 
hang,  and  with  a  last  desperate  plunge  through 
the  mob,  reached  the  steps  of  the  Club,  and  pro- 
cured lobster-salad  and  the  sparkling  vintage  of 
Epernay  for  the  wearer  of  the  bonnet  and  her 
companion ;  how  I  gnawed  the  leg  of  a  fowl  with 
a  grim  sense  of  complacency  at  sitting  at  last 
under  my  own  fig-tree,  with  no  man  to  make  me 
afraid — not  even  the  dunderheaded  police,  and 
the  remarkably  obtuse  and  discourteous  Captain 
Labalmondiere,  who  seemed  to  think  that  Sir 
Richard  Mayne  had  granted  passes  to  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  press  as  a  mere  joke,  and  was  for 
driving  me  back  from  Trafalgar  Square  eastward, 
but  was  baffled  by  my  persistence  and  agility ; 
how  we  couldn't  get  a  cab  home,  and  nobody 
would  lend  me  a  brougham,  and  I  had  lent  my 
own  to  "  a  lady  friend"  (which  her  name  is  Har- 
ris) ;  how  the  new  bonnet  was  spoilt  in  the  rain, 
and  we  reached  home  about  eight ;  and  how, 
after  drinking  about  a  gallon  and  a  half  of  tea,  I 


152  BKEAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OK, 

Bat  down  to  work,  and  wrote  all  that  night  and 
the  best  part  of  the  next  day  (breaking  the  Sab- 
bath, alas!),  in  order  that  the  British  public 
might  read  all  about  the  reception  of  the  Prince 
and  Princess  in  the  newspapers  on  Monday 
morning  ; — all  these  things  are  written  in  other 
chronicles,  and  it  boots  not  now  to  dwell  upon 
them  with  more  particularity.  I  drank,  let  it 
suffice  to  say,  the  cup  of  penny-a-lining  to  the 
very  last  dregs. 

But  was  it  not  all  my  own  doing  ?  I  had  laid 
clown  the  mantle  of  respectability,  and  taken  up 
the  toga  of  the  penny-a-liner.  I  was  nobody — 
less  than  nobody.  The  crowd  knew  it,  and 
laughed  my  nothingness  to  scorn.  Five  thou- 
sand "  roughs"  pointed  me  out  with  the  dirty 
finger  of  derision,  and  five  thousand  City  Arabs 
howled  at  me.  It  is  my  custom  to  dress  in 
black — being  generally  in  mourning  for  my  re- 
latives, or  my  friends,  or  myself;  and  nature, 
not  unassisted  by  art,  has  conferred  upon  me 
a  red  nose.  The  crowd  in  Cheapside  declared 
that  I  was  a  mute.  They  called  me  bone- 
grubber.  They  assailed  me  with  much  more 
invective,  coupled  with  many  more  expletives, 
which  I  disdain  to  transcribe.  It  was  all  my 
own  fault.  "What  business  had  I  with  "  occa- 
sional reporting?" 

My  friends    have    been    telling  me  so  ever 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  153 

since.  I  have  derogated,  they  inform  me,  from 
mv  standing  in  letters  and  in  society.  I  answer, 
that  I  have  no  such  pediment  left — only  a  pair 
of  poor  feet,  which  I  can't  stand  upon ;  that  I 
voluntarily  accepted  a  duty ;  that  I  carried  it 
out  to  the  best  of  my  ability  ;  and  that  I  haven't 
a  single  toe-nail  left. 


154:  BEEAKFAST   IN   BED  I    0E, 


ON  A  BEMAKKABLE  DOG. 

Feom  the  lower  regions  of  this  establishment 
comes  wafted  towards  me,  in  rippling  freshets  of 
sound,  softened  and  mellowed  by  divagation,  a 
deep  baying.  With  the  utmost  regularity  every 
morning,  while  I  am  Breakfasting  in  Bed,  just  as 
I  have  begitn  to  crunch  my  second  slice  of  dry 
toast,  I  hear  that  baying.  There  is  no  mistaking 
its  import.  I  know  what  it  means,  quite  as  well 
as  I  do  the  signification  of  the  knocks  and  rings 
at  the  door  about  this  time  in  the  morning.  For 
example,  there  is  the  milk,  with  her  customary 
ram  des  vaches — a  vaccine  arrangement  which,  I 
much  fear,  has  been  associated,  since  we  have 
been  resident  in  London,  with  the  handle  of  the 
pump  nearest  to  the  dairy  where  the  professedly 
lacteal  fluid  is  concocted  for  metropolitan  con- 
sumption. Then  there  is  the  baker,  whose  knock 
is  a  determined  one,  and  who  is  an  individual  of 
arrogant  mien,  but  who  has  been  slightly  less  in- 
dependent since  the  carts  of  the  Aerated  Bread 
Company  (Limited)  took  to  calling  for  orders. 
Between  the  milk  and  the  baker,  the  watercress- 
seller  makes  himself  audible  at  the  area-railing, 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  155 

and  directly  afterwards  the  first  intonation  of 
"  Clo' !"  is  heard  from  the  street. 

If  I  draw  aside  the  window-blind  a  little,  and 
peep,  I  am  pretty  sure  to  see  the  Hebrew  gentle- 
man from  Houndsditch  glancing  wistfully  up- 
wards, as  though  in  meek  remonstrance  at  the 
closed  casement  of  my  bower.  "  "Why  does  that 
lazy  fellow  persist  in  Breakfasting  in  Bed  ?  why 
doesn't  he  come  down,  like  a  man,  and  sell  me 
three  pairs  of  old  trousers  and  a  little  veskit  ?" — 
I  fancy  the  harmless  Caucasian  is  murmuring. 

Then  the  postman's  knock,  in  its  sharp,  impe- 
rious rat-tat,  makes  you  start  and  shudder.  I 
believe  it  was  Mr.  Howard  Glover  who,  in  con- 
junction with  an  artist  in  chromo-lithography, 
undertook  to  inculcate  tjje  extremely  erroneous 
theory  that  everybody  was  glad  to  hear  the  post- 
man's knock.  I  would  give  the  functionary  in 
question  a  very  long  holiday,  had  I  the  power  of 
dismissal.  I  never  knew  any  good  that  came  out 
of  the  General  Post-Omce — nay,  nor  out  of  the 
defunct  twopenny  institution.  Next  to  the  agony 
of  writing  letters  must  rank,  I  think,  the  torture 
of  receiving  them ;  yet,  personally,  I  am  consoled 
at  the  thought,  that  on  one  morning  of  the  year 
(Sundays  always  excepted)  the  postman  leaves 
my  knocker  alone.  This  solitary  blissful  occa- 
sion is  Yalentine's  Hay. 

Let  me  see :   is  my  reckoning  according  to 


156  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  J    OR, 

Cocker,  and  Colenso  ?  The  milk,  the  baker,  the 
watercresses,  the  clothesman,  the  postman.  Yes ; 
I  think  they  make  up  the  sum  of  noises — the  or- 
dinary and  distant  street-cries,  that  don't  concern 
you,  being  left  out  of  calculation — till  the  news- 
paper-boy is  due,  and,  with  varying  punctuality, 
makes  his  appearance.  A  young  vagabond !  The 
fibs  that  boy  tells  would  have  driven  Baron  Mun- 
chausen wild  with  envy.  His  mendacity  is  splen- 
did in  its  boldness. 

I  am  in  the  habit  of  taking  in  a  high  Tory 
morning  journal,  a  rampantly  Radical,  a  sen';en- 
tiously  sentimental,  and  an  icily  Liberal  one,  and 
mixing  up  my  perusal  of  them,  paragraph  for 
paragraph,  in  order  to  keep  my  head  clear,  and 
to  cultivate  a  decent  impartiality.  In  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  the  newspaper-boy  forgets,  or  omits,  or 
refuses  to  bring  one  or  another  of  the  elements  in 
this  mental  pabulum.  The  excuses  he  pleads  are 
amazing  in  their  variety  and  impudence :  "  They 
wos  hall  sold  out  at  the  hotfice ;"  "  I  couldn't  get 
ne'er  a  copy  no-how ;"  "  The  hother  boy  went 
hoffwith  five  quire ;"  "  Yourn  was  left  at  number 
heleven,  round  the  corner;"  " Missis  is  hill;" 
"  Master  won't  let  me  have  none ;" — these  are  a 
few  of  his  artful  pleas  in  abatement;  but  his 
favorite  one  is,  "  The  machine  'as  broke  down." 
It  doesn't  matter  whether  the  non-forthcoir  Lug 
journal  has  a  circulation  of  five  hundred  o    of 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  157 

fifty  thousand.  The  back  of  the  "  machine  "  is 
considered  broad  enough  to  bear  any  burden  of 
blame,  however  onerous;  and  it  has  not  unfre- 
quently  happened,  that  I  have  risen  very  early, 
or  been  kept  up  very  late,  and  been  at  a  news- 
paper-office and  seen  the  ceremony  of  publication 
successfully  completed,  only  to  meet,  on  my  re- 
turn home,  with  the  news-boy's  cool  assertion, 
that  "  The  machine  'as  broke  down."  He  has 
very  probably  been  playing  ny-the-garter  in  the 
gutter,  instead  of  waiting  his  turn  at  the  office  ; 
or,  if  any  momentous  news  have  arrived,  has 
sold  the  paper  intended  for  me  to  a  chance  cus- 
tomer in  the  street,  at  a  premium. 

Hark !  that  baying  sound  is  heard  once  more. 
If  due  attention  be  not  paid  to  it,  for  the  third 
time  it  will  be  audible,  and  in  a  remonstrant 
minatory  tone ;  and  then — though  the  catastro- 
phe happens  but  seldom — the  house  won't  be 
large  enough  for  the  disturbance  that  will  take 
place.  There  is  no  stopping  one's  ears  to  that 
baying.  It  is  the  voice  of  the  dog  Boodlejack 
demanding  breakfast. 

Voici  la  difference  entre  nous  deux :  Boodle- 
jack  has  four  legs,  and  I  have  two — it  being 
granted,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  I  habitu- 
ally walk  erect.  I  sleep  in  the  second-floor 
front,  and  Boodlejack  in  the  back-yard.  I  Break- 
fast in  Bed,  Boodlejack  in  a   kennel  carpeted 


158 


with  straw.  Boocllejack  bays  for  his  breakfast,  I 
ring  the  bell  for  mine.  If  he  doesn't  get  it  as 
quickly  as  he  deems  right  and  proper,  he  bays 
again  and  again,  and  ultimately  howls,  barks, 
rattles  his  chain,  tears  up  his  straw,  kicks  over 
his  water-pan,  and  overturns  his  kennel.  If  I 
don't  get  my  breakfast  when  I  ring  for  it,  I  ring 
again  and  again,  and  then — well,  what  do  you 
do,  my  revered  friend,  when  your  wishes  are  not 
attended  to  ?  Do  you  bear  your  lot  with  angelic 
patience,  and  after  a  lapse  of  half  an  hour  falter 
forth  words  of  gratitude  when  somebody  comes 
up  to  ask  whether  you  were  pleased  to  ring  or 
not  ?  or  do  you  grumble,  swear,  kick  off  the  bed- 
clothes, give  the  servants  warning,  and  threaten 
to  smash  the  furniture  ?  As  a  middle  course,  I 
should  advise  you  to  keep  in  your  bed-room  a 
six-pound  cannon-ball,  •r,  better  still,  a  pair  of 
dumb-bells. 

If  you  experience  any  remissness  of  attention 
to  your  summons,  just  oj)en  your  bed-room  door, 
pop  out  on  to  the  landing,  and  hurl  the  ball,  or  the 
bells,  wTith  as  much  momentum  as  ever  you  can 
muster,  down-stairs.  Those  missiles  will  produce 
so  hideous  and  alarming  a  clatter  in  the  house, 
that,  ere  two  minutes  are  over,  the  whole  estab- 
lishment wTill  be  on  the  qui  vive  at  the  door ;  and 
then  you  may,  with  perfect  ease  and  confidence 
assume  the  angelic  smile,  and  meekly  hint  that 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  159 

you  would  feel  very  much  obliged  by  a  cup  of 
tea  being  brought  to  you  at  the  perfect  conve- 
nience of  the  domestics.  The  suggestion  of  thus 
applying  the  useful  metals  to  making  one's  wants 
known,  I  owe  to  the  dog  Boodlejack,  who, 
when  hard  pushed  for  sustenance,  is,  as  I  have 
premised,  given  to  rattling  his  chain  against  the 
wall  of  his  kennel  in  a  most  horrifying  manner. 

I  have  noticed  a  few  points  wherein  Boodlejack 
and  I  differ,  albeit  the  difference  is  only  one  of 
degree ;  but  there  are  many  in  which  similarity 
between  the  dog  and  his  master — if  I  am  his  mas- 
ter, physically  or  morally,  the  which  I  doubt 
sometimes — can  be  traced.  Boodlejack  has  a 
temper;  I  have  a  temper.  Boodlejack  is  glut- 
tonous and  lazy ;  I  am  ditto  ditto.  Boodlejack 
has  a  butcher ;  I  have  a  butcher.  I  am  allowed 
kidneys  for  breakfast  twice  a  wTeek ;  Boodlejack 
has  tripe  on  Tuesdays  and  Fridays.  For  the  rest, 
I  hold  Boodlejack  to  be  quite  as  good  as  I  am ; 
although  I  very  much  doubt  whether  I  am  as 
good  as  Boodlejack. 

In  the  garden  of  Newstead  Abbey,  Lord  Byron 
erected,  in  the  year  1808,  a  monument  to  a  favor- 
ite Newfoundland  dog  named  Boatswain.  To- 
wards this  animal  his  lordship  appears  to  have 
entertained  something  very  like  genuine  affec- 
tion ;  and  the  verses  inscribed  over  his  tombstone 
have    sufficient    cynicism,    mingled   with  their 


160  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  J   OR, 

pathos,  to  make  us  believe  in  their  sincerity. 
The  poetry  is  but  so-so ;  for  whenever  a  man  has 
to  put  sorrow  into  verse,  his  finer  feelings  are  apt 
to  become  absorbed  in  the  exigence  of  tagging 
rhymes  together,  and  his  muse  begins  to  be  redo- 
lent of  the  shop,  like  a  mute's  countenance,  or 
the  white  pocket-handkerchief  of  a  chief  mourner. 

"  When  some  proud  son  of  man  returns  to  earth, 
Unknown  to  glory,  but  upheld  by  birth, 
The  sculptor's  art  exhausts  the  pomp  of  woe, 
And  storied  urn  records  who  rests  below." 

This  is  very  fine,  but  is  bringing  down  the  dog 
at  somewhat  of  a  long  shot.  I  like  the  prose 
epitaph,  still  visible  over  Boatswain's  grave,  much 
better. 

"  Near  this  spot 

Are  deposited  the  Remains  of  one 

Who  possessed  Beauty  without  Vanity, 

Strength  without  Insolence, 

Courage  without  Ferocity, 

And  all  the  Virtues  of  Man  without  his  Vices. 

This  Praise,  which  would  be  unmeaning 

Flattery 

If  inscribed  over  Human  Ashes, 

Is  but  a  just  tribute  to  the  Memory  of 

Boatswain,  a  Dog, 

Who  was  born  at  Newfoundland,  May,  1803, 

And  died  at  Newstead'Abbey,  November  18,  1808." 

There  is  a  fine  healthy  tone  of  misanthropy  in 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEKTS.  161 

the  line  ascribing  "  all  the  virtues  of  man  with- 
out his  vices"  to  the  poor  defunct  bow-wow, 
almost  smacking  of  the  spirit  which  led  Diderot 
and  Swift,  in  a  congenial  moment,  to  write  books 
against  their  own  species.  Swift,  being  mad, 
published  his — and  the  gorge  of  mankind  will 
continue,  so  long  as  letters  last,  to  rise  at  the 
loathsome  picture  of  the  Yahoos ;  but  Diderot, 
not  being  a  crazy  cathedral-dean  and  ex-counsel- 
lor of  the  Tory  ministry,  but  only  an  infidel 
French  encyclopedist,  had  sense  (  nough  to  keep 
his  Satire  upon  Man  in  his  own  deok,  and  to  burn 
it  before  he  died. 

"  All  the  virtues  of  man  without  his  vices !" 
The  temper  of  the  antithesis  is  charmingly  char- 
acteristic. It  is  only  when  a  man  begins  to  find 
out  how  bad  he  himself  is  that  he  discovers  the 
summum  tonum  to  be  resident  in  the  lower  ani- 
mals. But  are  they  "lower  animals?"  What 
do  I  know  of  the  nr)Tstery  of  the  beasts  ?  What 
though  the  doctrine  of  the  metempsychosis  held 
water,  and  Eoodlejack  were  once  upon  a  time  a 
bishop  ?  He  is  greedy  enough,  and,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  the  Tuesday  and  Friday's  tripe,  he  is 
growing  fat  enough  for  the  episcopacy. 

Now-a-days,  when  the  principal  functions  of 
Christian  pastors  seem  to  be  confined  to  petition- 
ing railway  companies  against  running  excursion 
trains  on  Sundays,   and  orthodox  Bishop  A. 'a 


162  BREAKFAST   IN"   BED;    OR, 

learning  tails  him,  and  compels  him  to  resort  to 
the  assistance  of  Layman  B.,  to  confute  skeptical 
Bishop  C.  on  the  vexed  question  of  the  hare 
chewing  the  cud,  and  Noah's  ark  being  big 
enough  to  hold  all  the  creeping  things  which, 
according  to  Moses,  went  up  into  it — now-a-days, 
when  a  bishop  has  grown,  in  the  opinion  of  most 
men,  to  be  somewhat  of  the  dummy  or  clothes- 
prop  kind  of  creature,  I  don't  see  why  Boodlejack, 
in  an  apron,  and  with  a  shovel-hat  projecting 
over  his  muzzle,  should  not  write  himself  "  Can- 
tuar,"  or  "Ebor,"  or  "Dunelm."  I  question, 
however — fond  as  he  is  of  tripe,  and  partial  to 
whatever  other  "  pretty  tiny  kickshaws,"  in  the 
way  of  bones,  trimmings,  and  lumps  of  fat,  the 
cook  may  find  him — whether  his  powers  of  de- 
glutition are  equal  to  eating  up  an  income  of 
from  five  to  fifteen  thousand  a  year. 

But  let  me  leave  for  a  time  the  Boodlejack 
speculative  for  the  Boodlejack  absolute.  First, 
as  to  his  name.  "Well,  I  will  admit  that  is  an 
odd,  perhaps  an  absurd  one ;  but  lias  not  the  pro- 
prietor of  an  animal  the  right  to  bestow  what- 
ever ajypellation  he  chooses  upon  his  chattel  ?  A 
late  eminent  wit  had  two  pigs,  on  which  he  con- 
ferred the  cognomen  of  the  publishers  from 
whom  he  derived  the  major  part  of  his  income. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  call  my  dog  Boodlejack,  if  I 
elect  so  to  do  ?    The  name  may  be  ridiculous ; 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  163 

but,  being  devoid  of  meaning,  is  not  liable  to  be 
resented  as  a  personal  affront  by  anybody.  Sup- 
pose I  bad  called  him  "Butler,"  or  "Langie- 
wicz,"  or  "  Two  Hundred  and  Ninety,"  who 
knows  what  susceptibilities  I  might  have  wounded, 
what  sensitive  toes  I  might  have  trodden  upon  ? 
There  was  never  a  human  being,  I  opine,  called 
Boodlejack,  and  I  am  therefore  safe  from  any 
imputation  of  invidious  motives.  One  is  obliged 
to  be  so  very  cautious  in  these  days,  you  see. 

Besides,  the  dog's  real  name  is  not  Boodlejack 
at  all.  Although  it  sounds  like  an  amplification, 
it  is  son  petit  nom — his  wheedling,  caressing 
appellative.  The  brute's  real  name  is  Mungo.  I 
named  him  Mungo  the  first  hour  he  was  brought 
to  me,  a  black-nosed,  liver-colored  mastiff  puppy, 
and  a  present  from  a  young  lady  who  is  now 
gone  to  New  Zealand.  "  Puppy,"  I  said  to  him, 
as  he  grovelled,  shivering  and  whining,  on  the 
hearthrug  at  my  chambers  in  town,  "  your  name 
is  to  be  Mungo,  as  is  fitting  for  such  a  sable- 
muzzled  animal — and  I  shall  expect  you  to  be- 
have yourself  as  such."  He  nearly  worried  my 
life  out  that  morning.  He  was  so  very  cold ; 
and  when  you  wrapped  him  up  in  a  blanket,  he 
essayed  to  swallow  the  corners,  and  nearly  choked 
himself  therewith. 

Milk  was  brought  to  him ;  but  he  spurned  it 
from  him,  and  spilt  it  on  the  carpet.     He  would 


164:  BREAKFAST    IX    BED  ;    OR, 

do  nothing  practicable,  but  climb  over  the  fender 
and  nestle  among  the  coals.  His  little  hide  was 
pitted,  ere  long,  with  hot-coal  marks  ;  but  he  had 
not  sense  enough  to  remove  himself,  or  docility 
enough  to  suffer  removal  from  the  dangerous 
contiguity  of  the  grate ;  and  the  burnt  puppy 
did  not  dread  the  fire.  The  lady  who  had  given 
him  to  me,  was  a  young  person  of  prompt  deci- 
sion and  inflexible  determination.  When  I  tell 
you  that,  as  a  governess  in  Russia,  she  had  kept 
a  live  bear  in  her  sitting-room,  you  may  imagine 
that  she  was  not  of  the  calibre  to  stand  any  non- 
sense. But  I  was  powerless  to  do  anything  with 
the  puppy.  Although  diminutive,  he  was  savage. 
He  bit  me  thrice  before  I  had  been  acquainted 
with  him  as  many  half-hours,  and  his  growl 
would  have  befitted  a  puppy  four  times  his  size. 
I  lived  then  some  twenty  miles  down  the  Great 
"Western  Railway  ;  and  when  it  came  to  be  time 
to  catch  the  train,  I  borrowed  a  hand-basket  and 
some  flannel,  crammed  Mungo  into  it  head  fore- 
most, and  took  him  away  to  Paddington. 

When,  after  much  growling  and  snapping,  and 
very  nearly  compromising  me  with  the  railway 
company  for  surreptitious  conveyance  of  animals 
in  their  carriages,  I  got  him  home,  I  did  not  say 
he  had  been  presented  to  me  by  a  young  lady.  I 
think  I  named  a  young  gentleman,  an  old  school- 
fellow, a  friendly  dog-fancier,  or  something  of  the 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  165 

kind.  Life  is  so  short,  and  so  beset  with  inherent 
woes,  that  it  is  best  to  avoid  domestic  disputes. 
The  secret  was  ere  long  divulged  ;  but  it  is,  hap- 
pily, a  long  way  to  New  Zealand,  and,  as  Mungo 
speedily  became  beloved  as  the  apple  of  the  eye 
by  the  head  of  the  household,  it  mattered  little 
whether  he  was  a  present  from  Wirima  Kingi  or 
from  Fair  Rosamond. 

But  he  did  not  remain  Mungo,  nor,  indeed,  a 
mastiff  puppy,  long.  He  passed  through  the 
transition  stages  of  Hung,  Bungy,  Bumpy,  Boo- 
dle, and  eventually  became  Boodlejack.  I  grant 
the  etymological  process  to  have  been  as  recon- 
dite as  that  which  derived  "  cucumber "  from 
King  Jeremiah.  His  change  of  breed  was  even 
more  remarkable.  He  was  about  six  weeks  old 
when  I  first  knew  him  ;  then  he  was  all  mastiff. 
In  his  third  month  he  looked  uncommonly  like  a 
bull-terrier.  Then  he  grew  to  the  likeness  of  a 
Newfoundland,  only  of  the  wrong  color.  Then 
his  nose  became  elongated,  his  ribs  defined,  his 
barrel  prolonged,  his  haunches  slendered,  and  he 
resembled  a  greyhound. 

At  present,  being  about  fifteen  months  old,  I 
am  sure  I  don't  know  what  he  is  like,  save  a  very 
big  house-dog1,  with  a  terribly  gruff  voice,  and  an 
insatiable  appetite.  I  have  grown  somewhat 
chary  of  showing  Mungo  to  my  friends  ;  for  I 
used  so  to  brag  of  him  in  his  infancy  as  a  suck- 


166  BREAKFAST   IN 


OR, 


ing  mastiff,  that,  looking  at  him  now,  they  burst 
into  the  guffaw  of  derision,  and  cry,  "That  a 
mastiff!  why,  he's  nothing  better  than  a  mon- 
grel !"  Never  mind  what  he  is.  He  has  the 
kindest  and  faithfullest  heart  that  ever  dos:  or 
man  possessed  ;  and  he  is  strong  enough  to  tackle 
a  garotter,  and  kill  him. 

At  the  house  I  took  the  liberty  of  occupying 
when  Boodlejack,  alias  Mungo,  was  a  puppy, 
there  were  four  big  dogs  ;  but  they  belonged,  not 
to  me,  but  to  the  landlord,  and  were  placed  on 
the  premises  quite  as  much  for  the  purpose  of 
protecting  his  own  farm-yard,  which  adjoined 
"our  habitation,  as  for  guarding  us  against  the 
midnight  marauder  or  the  noonday  tramp.  You 
know  that,  chief  among  the  delights  of  dwelling 
in  a  sequestered  rural  nook,  is  the  apprehension, 
at  almost  every  hour  of  the  day  and  night,  of 
bein^;  robbed.  Our  village,  which  was  about 
three-quarters  of  4  mile  clistant,  was  rather  fa- 
mous for  housebreakers ;  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  a  neat  little  burglary  to  be  committed  in  our 
house  was  "  put  up  "  about  once  a  fortnight  in 
one  of  the  beershops  of  the  adjacent  hamlet. 
Our  "  crib,"  however,  was  never  "  cracked  ;" 
and  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  our  immunity  from 
spoliation  to  the  terrible  renown  for  strength  and 
ferocity  of  our  four  big  dogs. 

Not  but  if  the  blackguards   who  are  in  the 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  167 

habit  of  making  raids  on  country  houses,  with 
shirts  over  their  clothes,  and  crape  over  their 
faces,  and  of  murdering  people  in  their  beds  if 
they  are  disturbed  in  their  enterprise,  had  pos- 
sessed to  the  most  limited  extent  the  reasoning 
faculty,  they  would  have  made  very  light  of  our 
four  dogs — leaving  the  infantile  Boodlejack  out 
of  the  reckoning  altogether — strong  and  valiant 
as  they  were.  In  the  first  place,  three  out  of 
these  four  dogs  were  useless  for  any  purpose  of 
giving  an  alarm ;  for  they  howled  and  barked 
all  day  and  all  night  in  the  most  persistent  and 
inconsequential  manner.  They  cried  "wolf" 
when  there  was  no  wolf.  They  bayed  the  moon* 
and  the  night  birds;  they  barked  at  the  chickens 
and  the  pigs ;  they  were  driven  to  fury  by  the 
barn-door  cats  ;  and  when  they  had  nothing  ani- 
mate or  inanimate  to  make  a  turmoil  about,  they 
bewailed  in  dolorous  accents  their  own  hard  fate 
in  being  chained  up,  and  having  nothing  to  eat 
but  a  bucket  of  gruel  every  morning,  and  the 
hind-leg  of  a  horse  once  a  fortnight.  The  noise 
they  made  was  so  continuous,  that  in  the  dead  of 
night  even,  we  took  no  more  notice  of  it  than  of 
the  screech-owls  or  the  distant  railway  whistle. 
The  fourth  dog  was  more  serviceable.  He  was 
a  big  bull,  of  a  morose  and  secretive  temperament. 
He  did  not  bark  once  in  a  month ;  but  when  the 
bull  did  give  tongue,  we  all  knew  there  was 


168  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  J   OR, 

something  the  matter,  and  rose  from  our  beds 
accordingly.  "Why  not  have  let  the  dogs  loose 
at  night  ?  you  may  ask. 

Not  one  landlord  in  a  dozen  dare  do  that.  The 
animals  may  be  decoyed  away,  or  poisoned  by 
prepared  liver  carefully  distributed  about  the 
bounds  they  are  likely  to  beat.  Moreover,  I  was 
in  the  habit  of  returning  by  the  last  train  from 
Loudon,  which  did  not  bring  me  to  our  village 
till  a  quarter  to  one  a.  m.  ;  and  my  landlord,  who 
dwelt  in  a  little  lodge  close  by,  was  even  a  later 
bird  than  I.  This  is  why  we  didn't  let  the  dogs 
loose. 

The  dog  is  a  sagacious  animal,  the  friend  of 
man,  and  very  fond  of  his  master  in  the  day- 
time ;  but  at  night  his  power  of  discriminating 
between  a  burglar  and  an  honest  man  is  apt  to 
grow  confused,  and  he  is  not  un addicted  to  pull- 
ing his  proprietor  down  and  tearing  out  his  throat. 
If  the  burglars  had  been  logicians,  they  would 
have  bethought  themselves  of  these  things  ;  but 
happily  they  did  not,  and  the  renown  of  our  four- 
footed  sentinels  was  quite  sufficient  to  scare  them 
away. 

"Was  it  Boodlejack's  fault  if,  educated  on  the 
threshold  of  this  turbulent  guardroom,  he  grew 
up  to  be  somewhat  rough,  not  to  say  fierce,  in  his 
demeanor?  He  early,  however,  established  a 
claim  to  be  considered  a  "  remarkable  dog  "  (else 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  169 

I  should  have  been  ashamed  to  proclaim  him  as 
such  at  the  head  of  this  Paper),  by  drawing  the 
nicest  of  distinctions  between  the  people  who 
were  to  be  barked  at  and  bitten,  and  those  who 
were  to  be  treated  with  courtesy  and  affection. 
Thus,  he  didn't  bite  me  or  mine,  or  the  friends 
who  were  good  enough  (paying  their  own  rail- 
way fare)  to  come  and  chop  and  sleep  beneath 
my  humble  although  picturesque  roof-tree ;  but 
he  flew  at  all  tradespeople,  as  persons  vending 
wares  generally  of  inferior  quality,  and  accus- 
tomed, besides,  to  call  for  sums  of  money  which 
they  alleged  to  be  due  to  them  at  times  and 
seasons  not  always  convenient  to  his  proprietors. 
Towards  poor  men,  as  a  rule,  he  was  pitiless.  He 
hated  the  necessitous  classes,  the  bisognosos,  the 
importunate  suppliants,  with  such  a  concentrated 
bitterness  and  remorseless  activity,  that  you 
might  have  imagined  him  a  relieving-officer,  or  a 
Government  clerk. 

The  tramps  and  the- Irishwomen  who  lurked 
about,  under  pretence  of  selling  bobbins  and 
muffatees  and  babies'  caps,  to  see  what  they 
could  lay  their  pilfering  hands  upon,  he  leapt  up 
at  savagely,  and  worried  as  well  as  his  little  teeth 
— oh,  but  they  were  sharp  ones ! — would  allow 
him.  To  see  him  shake  the  corduroy,  clay-caked 
leg  of  an  agricultural  vagrant  would  have  done 
a  Pharisee's  heart  good.     He  was  so  vindictive 

8 


170  s  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  ;   OR, 

towards  small  ragged  children,  that  I  had  some 
thoughts  of  re-christening  him  Malthus,  deeming 
him  descended  from  some  notable  baby-tearer 
erst  in  the  possession  of  the  reverend  writer  on 
population.  Blessings  on  the  reverend  writer's 
pious  memory  !  and  I  hope  he  has  got  it  hot  by 
this  time.  To  the  gipsies  also  he  entertained  the 
liveliest  aversion  ;  an  aversion  not  uncommon 
among  those  who  reside  in  the  arcadian  districts, 
and  who  do  not  habitually  get  their  living  by 
begging  or  thieving.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  that 
I  entertain  not  the  smallest  amount  of  sympathy 
towards  the  Bohemian  race. 

A  fellow-feeling  does  not  make  me  wondrous 
kind,  or  even  commonly  civil  to  them.  Hircius 
will  be  shocked  to  hear  this.  Spungius  will  lift 
up  his  hands;  for  is  not  my  name  Devil's-hoof? 
Have  I  not  lived  under  the  blanket-roof,  and 
warmed  the  patched  kettle  with  the  farmer's 
fagots  to  cook  the  poached  hare  ?  Have  I  not 
found  linen  on  every  hedge?  It  may  be  so, 
metaphorically  ;  but  I  would  rather  not  have  the 
children  of  Egypt  camping  in  my  neighborhood. 
I  don't  believe  in  their  tinkering,  and  I  don't 
believe  in  their  horse-whispering,  and  I  don't 
believe  in  their  fortune-telling  ;  but  I  do  believe 
in  their  dirt,  and  their  idleness,  and  their  impu- 
dence, and  their  picking-and-stealing  propensities. 
Boodlejack  was  of  my  opinion,  and  was  down  on, 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  171 

or  rather  up  at  the  brownskins  whenever  they 
ventured  within  our  gates. 

It  was  another  among  the  peculiarities  of  this 
remarkable  dog,  that  he  hated  Eton  boys.  You 
are  aware  that,  once  seen,  an  Eton  boy  cannot  be 
forgotten.  Still  less  can  he  be  confounded  with 
any  other  boy  belonging  to  any  other  school, 
academy,  seminary,  or  collegiate  institution  what- 
soever. He  is  about  the  prettiest,  lithest,  cleanest 
little  lad  you  would  wish  to  dwell  upon.  His  hat 
is  always  shiny.  It  is  always  a  chimney-pot  hat. 
An  Eton  boy  who  wore  a  cap,  or  a  pork-pie,  or  a 
wide-awake,  would  be,  I  suppose,  after  a  birching 
in  terrorem  round  the  quadrangle,  expelled  the 
precincts  of  the  antique  spires.  His  lay-down 
collar  is  always  snowy  white.  His  trousers,  his 
round  jacket,  his  dandy  scarf  and  waistcoat,  are 
of  faultless  make.  Nine  out  of  ten  Eton  boys 
have  gold  watch-chains.  Many,  when  out  of 
bounds,  have  rings  on  their  fingers.  Eew  go  to 
town  without  gloves.  An  Eton  boy's  hair  is 
always  well  brushed.  You  can  see  in  a  moment 
that  he  belongs  to  the  superior  classes.  And  so, 
indeed,  he  does. 

That  fair-skinned  urchin  of  eleven  is  the  little 
Duke  of  Pampotter.  He  is  heir  to  an  estate  of 
ninety  thousand  a  year.  He  is  a  high  and  mighty 
prince.  His  father,  the  fifth  duke  (Claudius 
Polonius),  was  a  Knight  of  the  Garter ;  and  some 


172  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  J   OR, 

of  these  days  little  Pampotter  will  have  his  stall 
in  St.  George's  chapel,  and  be  written  down  K.G. 
Yon  can  see  at  a  glance  that  the  boy  is  a  gentle- 
man. After  all,  there  is  something  in  Norman 
blood,  or  at  all  events  in  illustrious  descent. 

Let  me  see,  who  is  that  other  little  urchin, 
aged  ten,  who  is  accompanying  his  Grace  into 
the  sweetstuff  shop  close  to  the  Christopher? 
He  is  quite  as  well  dressed  as  the  Duke.  His 
skin  is  as  white.  He  is,  on  the  whole,  hand- 
somer. Any  Norman  blood  there,  I  wonder  ? 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  Urchin  number  two  is  Dickey 
Brumstitch,  and  his  father  is  an  eminent  army- 
tailor  and  money-lender  in  Madclox  Street,  Han- 
over Square.  Give  me  a  healthy  baby,  vaccinated 
and  so  forth,  and  let  me  choose  his  nurses  and 
governesses,  and  direct  his  park-airings,  and  put 
him  to  tutors,  and  send  him  to  Eton,  and  I  will 
undertake  to  make  a  little  duke  out  of  a  little 
beggar's  brat. 

It  is  the  diet,  my  dear  sir,  and  the  change  of 
air,  and  the  pony  exercise,  and  the  fawning  and 
flattering  that  makes  a  gentleman,  both  for  good 
and  evil,  in  the  "  Court-Guide  "  sense.  For,  give 
me  another  baby,  and  let  me  poison  his  mother's 
milk  with  bad  air  and  scanty  food.  Let  me  rear 
him  in  a  Bethnal  Green  cellar,  or  give  him  a 
Hoxton  back  slum  to  play  about  in.  Let  mo 
teach  him  to  go  to  the  gin-shop  when  he  is  four, 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN    THE    SHEETS.  173 

and  to  the  pawnbroker's  when  he  is  six,  and  to 
the  Devil  as  soon  afterwards  as  is  convenient, 
and  I  will  go  bail  that  my  recipe  is  infallible  for 
manufacturing  a  young  vagrant  or  a  young 
garotter  out  of  a  young  descendant  of  the  Planta- 
genets. 

But  to  return  to  the  Eton  boy  in  his  connec- 
tion with  Boodlejack.  His  outward  and  visible 
beauties  I  have  already  commented  upon  and 
frankly  admitted.  As  a  rule,  the  Etonian  is,  be- 
sides, a  good-natured,  open-handed  little  fellow, 
and  about  the  worst-taught  and  worse-behaved 
young  cub  to  be  discovered  in  any  part  of  the 
habitable  globe.  He  is  so  because  the  system  of 
education  under  which  he  is  bred  is  intrinsically 
and  hopelessly  stupid,  false,  and  rotten.  A  pack 
of  idiots,  who  know  nothing  about  Eton  schools 
and  Eton  boys,  go  maundering  about  the  world, 
preaching  up  the  "  manly"  and  "independent" 
qualities  inseparable  from  the  English  public 
school  system.     Manly  and  independent ! 

Do  you  know,  madam,  the  first  lesson  taught 
to  your  rosy-cheeked  boy  when  he  first  goes  to 
Eton  ?  It  is  to  tell  lies.  His  whole  life  out  of 
school  is  one  course  of  shirking  and  evasion. 
His  masters  forbid  him  to  cross  to  the  Berkshire 
side  of  the  bridge,  or  to  be  seen  in  a  public- 
house.  He  is  continually  lurking  about  the  ta- 
verns at  Eton,  or  Windsor,  or  Salt  Hill,  with 


174  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OE, 

some  of  his  playmates  as  outlying  scouts  to  watch 
for  the  approach  of  a  master.  As  he  grows  big- 
ger, his  circle  of  prohibited  pleasures  widens. 
The  very  men — clergymen  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land— who  are  set  over  him  to  teach  and  train 
him  up  in  the  way  he  should  go,  are  perfectly 
aware  of  the  system  of  fraud  and  deception  tra- 
ditional in  the  school.  They  even  connive  at  it 
by  a  tacit  agreement,  that  if  a  boy  be  caught, 
say,  out  of  bounds,  and  takes  to  a  hiding-place, 
however  flimsy — a  sapling  or  a  lamp-post,  for  in- 
stance— he  shall  be  deemed  to  be  concealed,  and, 
although  visible  as  the  sun  at  noon-day  to  the 
master's  eye,  shall  be  held  harmless  from  detec- 
tion and  punishment  on  his  naked  flesh. 

Is  this  system  at  all  a  "manly  and  indepen- 
dent" one  ?  Does  it  not  the  rather  teach  lads  to 
deceive  their  parents,  their  superiors,  their  friends 
in  after-life  ?  He  who  has  "  chivied  "  from  a  mas- 
ter at  Eton  will  not  be  very  thick-skinned  as 
to  "taking  in  the  governor"  about  his  college 
and  his  regimental  debts.  Of  the  "  manly  and 
independent"  elements  to  be  found  in  flogging 
and  in  fagging,  I  will  only  say  thus  much  :  that  as 
regards  fagging,  I  was  brought  up  in  a  school 
where  there  were  a  thousand  boys ;  that  I  went 
into  it  a  little  boy  and  a  weak  boy  ;  and  that  if 
any  bigger  boy  had  presumed,  on  his  size  or  his 
strength,  to  bully  or  to  make  a  fag  of  me,  I 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN    THE    SHEETS.  175 

would,  failing  redress  from  the  school  authorities, 
have  gone  out  and  bought  a  pistol,  and  blown 
the  bully's  brains  out. 

"With  respect  to  the  maintenance  in  a  profess- 
edly aristocratic  school  of  a  brutal  and  degrad- 
ing punishment,  which  has  been  banished  from 
parish-schools  and  workhouses,  I  have  only  to 
remark,  that  (as  I  suppose)  whatever  is,  is  right ; 
and  that  if  it  be  right  that  the  basis  of  English 
aristocratic  public-school  education  should  be,  for 
priests  of  the  Christian  religion  to  instil  into  little 
Christian  boys  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
beastly  amours  of  heathen  gods  and  goddesses 
by  scourging  their  backs  with  birchen  rods,  I  for 
one  am  not  in  the  least  astonished  to  find  bishops 
of  the  same  religion  turning  deists  and  blasphe- 
mers, and  coming  all  the  way  from  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope  to  tell  us  that  the  JSToaehian  deluge 
is  "  unhistorical,"  and  the  Books  of  Moses  nothing 
but  supposes.  It  is  all  of  a  piece,  and  will  be 
till  lies  cease  to  be  respectable,  and  impostures 
cease  to  be  institutions. 

I  am  not  inclined  to  think  that  my  dog  Boodle- 
jack  held  views  quite  so  uncompromising.  He 
had  not,  probably,  troubled  his  honest  pate  at  all 
on  the  Etonian  question.  He  had  merely  learnt 
from  his  doggish  companions  that,  when  Eton 
boys  made  their  appearance  about  the  farm,  they 
were  to  be  barked  at,  and  if  possible,  bitten.     I 


176  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OR, 

am  not  responsible  for  setting  the  initiative  in 
this  stern  code. 

My  landlord  had  been  an  Eton  boy  himself ; 
but  he  found  a  love  for  the  antique  spires  incom- 
patible with  the  preservation  of  peace  and  quiet- 
ness on  his  farm.  The  young  gentlemen  from 
Eton  were  in  the  habit  of  coming  across  from  the 
playing-fields  and  making  playful  raids  on  his 
property. 

These  blithe  young  moss-troopers  would  tram- 
ple down  his  crops,  play  Old  Gooseberry  with 
his  turnips,  drive  his  cows  half  crazy  by  flicking 
them  with  twisted  pocket-handkerchiefs,  stone 
his  ducks,  chase  his  pigs,  burst  into  his  dairy, 
and  romp  with  his  dairy-maids.  So,  whenever 
he  had  a  chance,  he  set  the  dogs  upon  them  ;  and 
when  he  hadn't,  he  would  rush  after  them  him 
self  with  a  cart-whip,  seize  them  in  flagrant  de- 
lict of  trespass,  and  compel  them  to  give  up  their 
names,  which  in  good  time  were  forwarded  to  Dr. 
Goodford,  the  head-master.  I  don't  think  he 
often  took  much  by  this  part  of  his  motion,  as 
the  boys — and  small  blame  to  them — usually 
trusted  more  to  their  imagination  than  to  their 
memory  for  facts  when  interpellated. 

A  fine  time  this  was  for  the  dog  Eoodlejaek. 
He  had  no  fear  of  being  held  a  trespasser,  and 
might  wag  his  tail,  and  come  "  flying  all  abroad," 
with  his  four  legs  very  wide  apart,  over  the  best 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS  177 

part  of  five  hundred  acres.  He  grew  in  size  and 
beauty  and  strength,  and  was  the  admiration  of 
all  beholders ;  always  excepting,  I  need  scarcely 
say,  the  people  he  bit.  The  baker,  for  instance, 
didn't  like  him.  He  had  had  a  triangular  piece 
out  of  his  leg.  The  laundress  abhorred  him.  He 
had  unlaced  her  boots  for  her  and  galled  her 
heels  many  a  time.  But  his  most  determined 
enemy  was  the  village  shoemaker.  He  was  a 
shoemaker  who  undertook  repairs ;  well,  not  to 
put  too  fine  a  point  on  it,  he  was  a  cobbler.  A 
pair  of  boots  of  mine  had  been  sent  to  this 
worthy  Crispin  to  be  mended,  and  he  kept 
them  twenty-seven  days.  It  wasn't  Easter-time ; 
there  was  no  fair  or  wake,  fatal  to  sutorial  in- 
dustry, about.  The  household  grew  anxious,  and 
Crazy  Jane  was  despatched  to  Crispin  to  ask 
about  my  boots. 

He  pointed  them  out  on  a  shelf,  bright  and 
natty,  the  perfection  of  cobblering. 

"  They've  been  done  this  fortnight,"  he  said, 
moodily. 

"  Then  why  haven't  you  brought  them  back  ?" 
quoth  Crazy  Jane. 

"  Ain't  they're  a  dawg  up  there  at  the  Court?" 
asked  Crispin,  with  darkling  visage. 

"  Well,  just    a   bit   of  a   puppy,"   was  the 
reply. 

.    "  A  bit  of  a  puppy !"  Crispin  repeated,  with 

8* 


178  BKEAKFAST   IN   BED;   OK, 

indignant  scorn — "  a  roaring  lion !  /know  him. 
He  'ave  a  bitten  my  Mariar  Ann.  He  'ave  a 
bitten  my  James.  He  'ave  anigli  swallered  up 
my  poor  little  black-and-tan  tarrier  Gyp,  which 
he  did  no  more  than  pass  the  time  of  day  to  the 
wicked,  fearocious  beast.  He  don't  bite  me. 
'Ere's  Mr.  S.'s  boots,  and  you  may  take  'em  'ome. 
If  you've  brought  the  money,  you  may  leave  it ; 
and  if  you  haven't,  never  mind  about  it,  if  it's 
till  next  Christinas.  I'll  mend  Mr.  S.'s  boots  ; 
but  I'm  bio  wed  if  I'll  come  anigh  that  there 
dawg." 

I  believe  the  cobbler's  bill  for  repairing  my 
boots  has  since  been  paid. 

It  was  likewise  about  this  time  that  Boodle- 
jack,  forgetful  that  his  character  of  a  Remark- 
able Dog  entailed  on  him,  morally,  the  respon- 
sibility of  being  a  well-behaved  one,  began  to 
misconduct  himself  in  the  most  distressing  man- 
ner. Of  his  chasing  ducks  and  chickens  about 
the  farm-yard,  and  attaching  himself  in  a  friendly 
but  importunate  manner  to  the  tails  of  pigs,  I  am 
not  disposed  to  say  anything  very  severe.  He 
was  yet  but  a  puppy,  and  was  full  of  his  fun. 
Nor  was  there,  perhaps,  anything  to  be  bitterly 
animadverted  upon  in  his  running  down,  garot- 
ting,  and  slaying  a  rat  very  nearly  as  large  as 
himself,  and  which  was  so  well  known  to  the 
denizens  of  our  colony  as  to  be  called,  from  his 


PHILOSOPHY   BJ$TWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  179 

length  and  greyness  of  whisker,  "  Old  Blucher," 
and  was  reported  to  be  a  hundred  years  old. 
This  animal  he  dragged,  after  despatching  it,  to 
the  lady  of  the  house,  and  laid  it  at  her  feet  as  a 
peace-offering;  and  need  of  peace  he  had,  in- 
deed, when  the  numbers  of  reels  of  cotton  he 
was  in  the  habit  of  appropriating  and  essaying 
to  devour  every  week  of  his  life  were  taken  into 
account. 

But  the  conduct  of  Boodlejack  speedily  be- 
came more  criminal.  He  grubbed  up  all  the 
oval  and  diamond  'parterres  in  our  garden.  He 
made  an  ollapodrida  of  all  the  seeds,  and  nastur- 
tions  came  up  where  geraniums  should  have 
grown.  We  had  a  rosary,  probably  the  prettiest 
and  most  prolific  in  the  county  of  Bucks,  and 
whose  scented  treasures  were  our  delight  and 
the  envy  of  the  whole  country-side.  Boodlejack 
cried  havoc,  and  let  loose  the  dogs  of  war — that 
is  to  say,  himself— in  the  rosary.  The  brute's 
mouth  was  always  full  of  rose-leaves,  and  he 
didn't  seem  to  mind  the  thorns  a  bit.  For  so 
small  a  dog  as  he  then  was,  you  might  have 
imagined,  by  the  devastation  he  caused,  that  he 
was  Atilla,  king  of  the  Huns.  His  frequent  as- 
saults on  the  legs  of  strangers  made  me  fearful 
about  the  law.  His  predatory  propensities  were 
perilous. 

He  went  out  one  day  into  the  village  with 


180  BREAKFAST   IN  BED  ;   OE, 

Crazy  Jane  to  buy  some  glazed  calico.  In  Elder- 
berry Lane  whom  should  he  meet  but  our  curate's 
wife  with  her  little  boy,  the  latter,  (aged  three) 
carrying  a  large  home-made,  open-work  jam-tart, 
newly  presented  to  him  by  an  admiring  female 
parishioner.  The  poor  child  had  just  begun  to 
revel  in  the  delights  of  the  tart,  by  smearing  his 
fingers  with  the  jam,  and  dabbing  his  little  digits 
on  his  lips.  There  is  an  immensity  of  delecta- 
tion to  be  had  out  of  a  jam-tart,  if  you  only  take 
your  time  over  it.  The  sight  was  too  much  for 
Boodlejack.  He  bounced  up  to  the  curate's 
little  boy,  frightened  him  out  of  his  wits  with 
one  piratical  yelp,  seized  his  jam-tart,  and  swal- 
lowed it,  as  though  it  had  been  a  lump  of 
dripping. 

Mrs.  Curate  was  dreadfully  irate.  She  didn't 
faint,  but  she  essayed  to  beat  Boodlejack  with 
her  parasol. 

"The  nasty  ugly  brute  has  eaten  the  clear 
child's  tart !"  she  cried,  in  doleful  indignation. 

When  up  spoke  Crazy  Jane,  a  young  woman 
who  adores  Boodlejack,  and  is  not  distinguished 
for  great  reticence  of  tongue. 

"  He  ain't  nasty !"  she  cried.  u  He's  washed 
twice  a  week.  He  ain't  ugly  !  He's  a  beauty, 
he  is.  And  as  for  eating  the  tart,  there's  two- 
pence, and  I  wonder  he  didn't  eat  you  /" 

Of  course  we  reproved  Crazy  Jane  when  this 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  181 

conversation  was  reported  to  us.  As  for  Boodle- 
jack,  his  misdeeds,  it  was  admitted  on  all  bands, 
merited  sterner  reprehension.  The  rosary  pecca- 
dilloes were  bad  enough ;  but  to  be  wanting  in 
respect  to  an  offshoot  of  the  Church  of  England 
— that  was  unpardonable.  Boodlejaek  was  sen- 
tenced to  be  tied  up ;  and  a  messenger  was  de- 
spatched to  the  village  to  buy  him  a  chain  and  a 
kennel. 

The  gyves  and  a  prison-house  for  him  were  pro- 
cured, and  Boodlejaek  entered  upon  new  condi- 
tions of  existence.  He  howled  at  first,  but  speed- 
ily found  consolation.  He  took  to  digging  a 
grave  with  his  paws  by  the  side  of  his  house,  as 
though  he  had  been  a  Trappist,  and  buried  favor- 
ite bits  of  fat  and  bones  of  more  than  ordinary 
gristly  succulence  there. 

He  pined  a  little  after  the  kitchen,  whither  he 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  repairing  for  the  purpose 
of  trying  and  smelling  the  joints  as  they  went 
round  on  the  spit,  and  unless  restrained  by  Crazy 
Jane,  of  licking  them.  He  found  he  could  no 
longer  bite  people,  but  took  it  out  in  barking. 
He  submitted  to  be  called — in  a  slightly  sarcastic 
tone— "  poor  old  fellow,"  and  "  good  doggy,"  by 
the  postman,  on  whose  calves,  in  bygone  times, 
he  had  made  many  exemplary  indentations.  Per- 
haps the  bitterest  humiliation  he  had  to  endure 
was  in  the  visits  of  "Wee,  the  cat — a  ginger-col- 


182 


ored  tom-tiger,  addicted  to  fowling,  ratting,  field- 
mousing,  and  other  out-door  sports — who  had 
formerly  been  a  mere  ball  of  fur  for  Boodlejack 
to  toss  about  and  trample  on,  but  who  would 
now  come  for  an  hour  or  two  every  day  and  sit 
in  the  sun  over  against  Boodlejack's  kennel,  just 
out  of  the  reach  of  his  paws,  eyeing  him  with 
sly  and  demure  glances  of  malicious  content- 
ment, as  though  to  say,  "  Aha !  you'll  worry  a 
poor  ginger  cat's  life  out,  you  will  ?  How  do 
you  like  a  straw  bed  and  a  chain,  eh  ?" 

I  don't  think  Boodlejack  minded  either  much. 
He  used  to  break  his  chain  about  three  times  a 
week,  and  essay  to  swallow  some  of  the  links.  As 
for  the  kennel,  although  it  was  ten  times  his  size, 
he  very  soon  managed  to  drag  it  about  after  him. 
In  the  intervals,  too,  between  the  fracture  of  his 
fetters  and  their  being  mended,  or  new  ones  pro- 
cured, he  was  master  of  the  situation ;  for  he 
laughed  at  cord,  and  would  have  gnawed  a  cable 
through  in  half  an  hour. 

At  such  times  he  wTould  lead  the  domestic  ani- 
mals a  sad  life,  and  again  toss  "Wee  up  in  the  air, 
as  the  cow  with  the  crumpled  horn  did  the  dog 
in  the  ballad ;  but  it  was  very  pleasant,  never- 
theless, to  see  him  gambolling  on  the  lawn  with 
a  little  boy  who  is  now  at  school,  knocking  him 
down,  and  rolling  him  over,  and  barking 
furiously  at  the  youngster,  but  in   his  wildest 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  183 

moments  refraining  from  doing  him  the  slightest 
hurt. 

We  have  all  grown  older  now,  and  sadder.  I 
have  given  up  the  house,  and  live  in  a  grim  town 
brick-barn,  where  there  are  neither  rats  nor  roses. 
And  Boodlejack  is  pining  in  a  back-yard,  till  I 
can  find  heart  of  grace  to  get  out  of  this  ab- 
horred London  again,  and  let  the  big  dog  have 
his  fling. 


184 


ON  WHAT  PEOPLE  SHOULD  HAYE  FOE 
BKEAKFAST. 

At  last !  After  many  months'  beating  about 
the  bush,  we  come  to  the  j>oint ;  to  a  plain,  prac- 
tical, tangible  issue.  The  last  excuse  for  digres- 
sion or  desultory  disquisition  is  taken  away.  If 
a  man  can't  devote  himself  to  the  topic  of  break- 
fast while  he  is  Breakfasting  in  Bed,  of  what  use 
is  it  his  breakfasting,  or  being  in  bed  at  all? 
"What,  indeed !  save,  perhaps,  that  he  should  go 
to  sleep ;  which  may  be,  after  all,  a  more  sensi- 
ble manner  of  employing  his  time  in  a  natural 
place  of  rest,  than  that  of  grumbling  at  a  matu- 
tinal meal  he  should  properly  Have  partaken  of 
in  the  parlor,  or  philosophising  between  the  sheets 
when  he  should  have  been  penning  moral  essays 
at  his  desk. 

"  On  what  people  should  have  for  breakfast  ?" 
"Why  didn't  I  grapple  with  that  most  important 
and  little  understood  question  last  September? 
By  this  time  I  might  have  helped  to  clear  away 
some  mists  of  prejudice,  to  fish  up  some  treacher- 
ously submerged  torpedo  of  sophistry,  to  dredge 
away  some  bar  of  ignorance,  to  clear  some  chan- 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN    THE    SHEETS.  185 

nel  leading  into  the  harbor  of  truth,  to  mitigate 
a  nuisance,  and  to  inaugurate  a  reform.  Or,  very 
probably,  I  might  have  done  nothing  whatever 
of  the  kind;  and  instead  of  rendering. a  service 
to  flie  cause  of  comfort  and  common  sense,  merely 
stirred  up  a  malignant  controversy  and  provoked 
a  fruitless  discussion.  To  err  is  human  ;  with  the 
best  intentions  we  ofttimes  come  to  grief. 

Look  at  the  Eight  Honorable  William  Ewart 
Gladstone  and  his  proposition  for  licensing  club- 
houses as  though  they  were  gin-shops.  The  right 
honorable  gentleman  persuaded  himself,  no  doubt, 
that  he  was  doing  an  uncommonly  clever  stroke 
of  business,  and  giving  to  his  financial  scheme  of 
'63  a  brilliant  gloss  as  a  "  poor  man's  budget." 
"  I'll  take  the  Clubs,"  he  said  to  himself  (of  course 
in  Attic  Greek).  "  The  reproach  of  there  being 
one  law  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor, 
shall  be  heard  no  longer.  What  is  sance  for  the 
goose  shall  be  sauce  for  the  gander.  The  equi- 
poise of  justice  shall  be  established  between  St. 
James's  and  St.  Giles's."  So  he  claps  seventeen 
pounds  ten  and  five  per  cent,  for  liquor,  and  three 
pounds  ten  and  five  per  ditto  for'  tobacco  license 
en  to  Pall  Mall,  and  rubs  his  hands  at  the  thought 
of  Whitechapel  and  Bethnal  Green  falling  into 
ecstasies  at  his  impartiality ;  and,  behold,  the 
right  honorable  gentleman  pleases  nobody  ! 

"  It  is   a   disgraceful    imposition,"    yells  St. 


186  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

James's,  in  a  rage ;  "  it  is  a  petty  piece  of 
tyranny,  and  Gladstone  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
himself.  We  don't  sell  wines,  liquors,  beer,  or 
tobacco.  We  buy  our  own  port,  and  our  own 
cognac,  and  our  own  cigars  out  of  our  own  fund?, 
and  don't  want  a  licence  to  divide  that  which  is 
our  own  among  ourselves." 

"  It's  all  a  something  sham,"  mutters  St. 
Giles's,  surlily.  "  It's  so  much  dust  thrown  in  a 
cove's  eyes.  Mr.  Gladstone  he  don't  mean  for  to 
let  the  Peelers  rummage  about  the  Clubs ;  he 
ain't  going  to  shut  'em  during  the  hours  of  der- 
vine  service.  He  don't  mean  for  to  put  an  end 
to  card-playing  (and  for  precious  high  stakes, 
too)  or  to  Darby  sweeps  among  the  nobs :  and 
there's  to  be  one  law  for  the  Clubs,  and  another 
for  the  '  Pig  and  Tinder-Box.' "  Combined 
chorus  of  "  He's  a  'umbug  and  a  do,"  from 
Whitechapel ;  and,  "  He  has  violated  every 
pledge  he  ever  gave  to  his  order,"  from  Pall 
Mall. 

St.  James's  cuts  Mr.  Gladstone  when  he  ven- 
tures to  show  himself  at  the  Carlton,  and  sends 
him  to  Coventry  if  he  puts  in  an  appearance  at 
the  U.  U. ;  and  St.  Giles's  sneers  at  him  as  "  a 
'igh  feller  as  gammons  coves  that  he  likes  to  do 
what's  low." 

Such  is  not  unfrequently  the  fate  of  very 
clever  and  brilliant  statesmen,  who  forget  that 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  187 

fluent  rhetoric  and  specious  casuistry  are  often 
swamped  for  the  want  of  a  little  candor  and  a 
little  sincerity. 

I  am  writing  at  the  risk  of  pleasing  nobody ; 
but  I  passionately  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I 
am  both  candid  and  sincere,  and  that  on  the 
topic  of  Breakfast  in  Bed,  at  least  you  shall  hear 
nothing  from  me  but  words  of  honesty. 

I  went  the  other  day  to  an  eminent  medical 
man,  and  he,  being  sensibly  of  opinion  that  the 
question  of  diet  was  of  more  importance  than 
that  of  pills  or  potions,  asked  me  what  I  was  in 
the  habit  of  taking  for  breakfast. 

I  answered  :  "  At  present,  and  as  a  rule,  noth- 
ing but  a  cup  of  tea  and  the  newspapers  ;  and 
equally,  as  a  rule,  I  can't  get  through  either  6f 
them.  But  in  bygone  days  I  used  to  make  a  very 
excellent  breakfast." 

"  "What  on  ?"  my  medico  searchingly  inquired. 

"  Well,"  I  returned,  "  I  used  to  eat  a  mutton- 
chop,  or  a  rump-steak,  or  a  good  plateful  from  a 
cold  joint,  or  a  couple  of  eggs  broiled  on  bacon, 
or  a  haddock,  or  a  mackerel,  or  some  pickled 
salmon,  or  some  cold  veal-and-ham  pie,  or  half  a 
wild  duck,  or  a  devilled  partridge,  with  plenty 
of  bread-and-butter,  or  toast,  or  muffins,  and  per- 
haps some  anchovy  sauce,  or  potted  char,  or 
preserved  beef;  the  whole  washed  down  by  a 
couple  of  cups  of  tea  or  coffee" 


188  BEEAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

He  stopped  me  with  a  gesture  of  amazement, 
and  a  look  of  horror  :  "  I  wonder  you  didn't  say 
a  dish  of  chocolate  and  a  glass  of  curacoa,  by  way 
of  a  wind  up,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  No,"  I  replied  with  modest  ingenuousness ; 
"  I  used  to  wind  up  with  a  pipe  of  bird's-eye.  I 
didn't  Breakfast  in  Bed  in  those  days,  and  my 
digestion  was  pretty  good,  I  thank  you." 

"  Aud  after  these  astounding  confessions,  you 
come  to  me,"  went  on  my  doctor,  "  and  grumble 
about  your  liver !  I  am  astonished  that  you 
have  any  left.  You  have  been  living  in  a  man- 
ner that  would  kill  half  a  dozen  bricklayers' 
laborers.  But  there  is  time  to  reform.  It  is  not 
yet  too  late.  You  should  take  for  breakfast  a 
very  small  quantity  of  dry  toast,  uniformly 
browned,  and  preferably  without  butter;  or  if 
you  do  hanker  after  adipose  matter,  the  very 
thinnest  possible  veneer  of  butter  upon  it.  Then, 
if  you  have  appetite  enough  for  it,  I  would 
advise  you  to  take  a  small  quantity  of  bacon  cut 
from  the  back,  not  the  streaky  bacon,  and  toasted 
before  the  tire,  until  all  the  oil  has  been  expelled 
from  the  tissue.  After  that — you  say  you  can't 
drink  tea  ?" 

I  stated  that  I  could  drink  it  by  pailfuls,  and 
was  madly  fond  of  it,  but  that  it  made  me  dis- 
tressingly nervous. 

"  Coffee,"  he  pursued,  "  is  heating,  unless  you 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  189 

have  a  minimum  of  the  very  finest  Oriental 
berry,  scientifically  roasted  and  ground,  to  a 
maximum  of  the  purest  milk ;  and  such  things 
are  difficult  to  obtain  in  London,  or  even  in 
England.     Can  you  drink  homoeopathic  cocoa?" 

I  answered  in  a  spirit  similar  to  that  which  is 
said  to  have  prompted  the  response  of  the  young 
Irish  gentleman  when  he  was  asked  if  he  could 
play  the  fiddle ;  I  said  that  I  had  no  doubt  of 
being  able  to  drink  homoeopathic  cocoa,  if  I 
tried. 

"  Then,  try  it,"  said  my  medico,  "  and  come 
to  me  in  three  weeks'  time." 

I  do  not  lose  a  moment  in  admitting  that  my 
adviser's  breakfast  menu  was  an  admirably  sensi- 
ble one ;  but  I  very  much  doubt  whether  I 
should  not  have  gone  raving  mad  if  I  had 
adhered  without  variation  to  a  repast  consisting 
of  toasted  bacon,  dry  toast,  and  homoeopathic 
cocoa.  I  tried  it  for  a  time,  then  gave  it  up. 
Bacon  is  a  very  nice  thing.  It  is  cruel  and 
unjust,  by  incessantly  consuming  it,  to  have  at 
last  to  loathe  and  abhor  it.  I  tried  my  hardest 
to  think  it  wholesome  and  appetizing  ;  but  to  no 
purpose.  I  found  myself  rapidly  approaching 
the  detestation  stage,  and  I  don't  mean  to 
have  any  more  bacon  for  breakfast  for  three 
months. 

I  have  scarcely  any  need  to  point  out  that 


190  BREAKFAST   IN   BED!    OE 


variety  in  what  you  have  for  breakfast  is  the 
prime  essential  to  enable  yon  to  eat  any  break- 
fast at  all.  Man  was  not  meant  to  live  on 
bread — nay,  nor  on  toasted  bacon,  nor  homoeo- 
pathic cocoa — alone.  If  you  don't  vary  his  diet, 
if  you  don't  give  him  something  by  way  of  a 
change,  he  will  pine  away,  or  refuse  his  victuals, 
and  grow  morose  and  refractory  as  a  wild 
animal. 

"We  have  heard  a  great  outcry  within  these 
latter  days  against  the  assumed  luxurious  man- 
ner in  which  criminals  are  fed  in  gaol.  The 
rogues,  it  appears,  live  on  savory  soup,  thickened 
with  meal,  and  seasoned  with  vegetables,  salt, 
and  pepper.  They  have  porridge  and  gruel, 
with  milk  and  rich  molasses,  potatoes,  boiled 
beef  (free  from  bones)  on  stated  days,  and  on 
others  (the  pampered  Sybarites !)  they  are  actu- 
ally regaled  with  hot  suet-pudding. 

Has  it  any  plums  in  it,  I  wonder  ?  Only  fancy 
giving  "  plum-duff"  to  garotters,  and  burglars, 
and  pickpockets,  and  the  atrocious  scoundrels 
who  have  been  convicted,  under  the  new  Poach- 
ing Act,  of  being  found  in  possession  of  a  rabbit's 
skin,  or  a  pheasant's  net.  Now  persons  of  prac- 
tical experience,  whether  they  be  professed 
physiologists  or  not,  are  perfectly  aware  of  these 
facts  :  that  if  you  deprive  a  man  of  his  liberty, 
and  make  him  work  at  tasks  uncongenial  to  his 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE  , SHEETS.  191 

tastes,  and  subject  him  to  a  grinding  and  inquisi- 
torial discipline,  and  feed  him  besides  on  bread 
and  water,  you  will  very  soon  drive  him  to 
idiocy,  to  murdering  his  gaoler,  or  to  dashing  his 
brains  out  against  the  walls  of  his  cell. 

A  very  short  term  of  such  a  punishment  is  one 
of  the  most  terrible  to  conceive  in  the  whole 
arsenal  of  penal  inflictions.  In  some  cases  it  may 
be  salutary ;  but,  imposed  for  any  lengthened 
period,  it  amounts  simply  to  constructive  murder. 
A  criminal  would  infinitely  prefer  a  thousand 
lashes  to  three  weeks  at  Hollo  way  or  Wands- 
worth on  "  low  diet." 

Silly  and  irrational  people,  who  can't  see  far- 
ther than  the  tips  of  their  noses,  think  that 
because  hard  labor  and  the  starvation  system  are 
efficacious  when  tried  for  a  few  days,  criminals 
should  be  subjected  to  such  a  doom  for  months, 
for  years,  or  for  life.  ]STo  prisoners  could  live, 
and  no  prison-authorities  could  enforce  such  a 
system  in  perpetuity. 

Gaolers  may  look  stern  enough,  but  they  are 
not  vindictive  or  hard-hearted  enough  to  meet 
all  the  requirements  of  the  new  school  of  philan- 
thropy. The  neo-philanthropists  are  indignant 
because  the  food  is  of  good  quality  and  is  well 
cooked.  Do  they  expect  the  -county  magistrates 
to  insert  advertisements  in  the  papers,  running, 
"  Wanted,  a  dishonest  contractor ;"  "  Wanted,  a 


192  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  J   OR, 

scoundrelly  carcass-butcher,  who  will  supply  so 
many  hundred-weight   of  offal,  various   bones, 
and    meat   generally   unfit   for    human   food ;" 
"  Wanted,  an  idiot  who  can't  cook;"  ""Wanted, 
a  jackass  who  can  turn  a  well-built  prison-kitchen 
topsy-turvy  V\    Wherever  you  find  order,  clean- 
liness, a  full  supply  of  proper  utensils,  efficiency 
in  the  persons  employed,  and  reasonably  good 
qualities  in  the  provisions  supplied,  there,  I  take 
it,   must  there  be  rations  of  well-cooked  food, 
which  those  who  know  nothing  about  the  matter 
term  "  luxurious."  "  Oh,"  cry  the  neo-philanthro- 
pists,  "  but  we  don't  want  any  cooking  at  all  for 
burglars  and  garotters.     Feed  the  wretches  once 
a    day    upon    bread-and-water ;    and    if    they 
grumble,   flog  them  well."     I  humbly  submit 
that,  since  the  world  began,  a  diet  exclusively 
composed  of  bread-and-water  for  persons  in  cap- 
tivity has  never  been  adopted,  as  a  permanency, 
save  where  it  was  the  deliberately-designed  or 
avowed  object  to  kill  the  captive.     On  the  conti- 
nent of  Europe,  in  the  most  barbarously-managed 
convict-prisons,  the  galley-slaves  are  allowed  to 
purchase    articles   of  food,   in   addition  to    the 
rations  allowed  them  by  the  State.     The  forgats 
of  Toulon  are  fed  on  soup  and  beans  and  wine- 
all  execrable  in  quality,  no  doubt,  but  still  pre- 
serving them  from  despair  by  offering  them  some 
variety  to  an  eternal  regimen  of  ammunition- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.         103 

bread  and  muddy  water.  In  the  prisons  of 
England,  before  John  Howard's  time,  those 
incarcerated  who  had  money  were  suffered  to 
buy  their  own  provisions,  liquors,  and  tobacco, 
and  really  lived  in  a  state  somewhat  resembling 
luxury,  though  of  a  coarse,  riotous,  and  bestial 
kind.  Those  who  had  no  money,  literally  rotted 
and  died  of  inanition.  Suppose  the  bread- an  d- 
water — and  nothing  but  bread-and- water — system 
established  permanently  in  a  modern  gaol.  Do 
you  know  what  the  result  would  be  after  a 
few  weeks'  trial  of  the  precious  bill-of-fare  \ 
The  prisoners  would  become  living  skeletons ;  on 
their  knees  and  under  their  arms  would  rise 
dreadful  glandular  swellings.  Their  blood  would 
turn  to  water,  and  that  to  an  inconceivably 
horrible  putrefaction.  Try  it,  my  lords  and 
gentlemen.  Try 'it,  my  neo-philanthropists.  But, 
first  of  all,  try  the  bread-and-water  diet  on  your- 
selves, and  tell  me  how  you  like  it. 

There  is  a  prison  at  Munich  where  they  give 
the  besl'-behaved  convicts,  from  time  to  time,  a 
pint  of  beer.  That  mawkish  draught  of  Baerisch- 
Bier,  attainable,  perhaps,  once  a  month,  is  found 
Ij  be  the* very  highest  and  most  efficacious  incen- 
tive to  exemplary  conduct.  At  Gibraltar  and 
Bermuda  they  used  to  give  the  felons  a  stick  of 
Cavendish  tobacco  every  week,  and  allow  them 
a  certain  number  of  minutes  every  evening  before 

9 


194:  BREAKFAST  IN  BED;   OK, 

gun-fire  to  "blow  their  baccy."  I  have  not  the 
slightest  doubt  that  this  evening  pipe  has  pre- 
vented many  a  mutiny  and  stifled  many  a  mur- 
der in  embryo.  Practice  has  never  been,  and 
never  will  be  on  this  side  eternity,  so  remorseless 
and  so  vindictive  as  theory. 

Thus  the  gentlemen  who  govern  the  victual- 
ling-department in  prisons  being,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  sensible,  humane,  and  experienced 
men,  who  know  what  prisoners  want  and  what 
they  do  not  want  much  better  than  outside 
theorists,  vary  the  breakfasts,  dinners,  and  sup- 
pers of  the  unhappy  persons  confided  to  their 
charge  to  as  great  an  extent  as  the  exceedingly 
restricted  dietary  table  will  allow  them  to  do. 
It  is  very  easy  to  prate  about  convicts  being 
pampered  and  coddled.  It  is  also  occasionally 
convenient  to  sneer  at  Sir  Joshua  Jebb  and  tho 
Home  Secretary,  and  drive  them  out  into  a  wil- 
derness of  vituperation  and  misrepresentation,  as 
scapegoats  for  our  own  shortcomings  and  blunder- 
ing in  time  gone  by ;  but  I  fancy  that  a  couple 
of  months'  experience  in  the  cell  of  a  convict- 
prison  would  convince  not  a  few  of  the  virtuously- 
indignant-against-prisoners'-indulgence  class,  that 
the  so-called  pampering  and  coddling  and  luxury 
amount  in  the  aggregate  to  a  bare  sufficiency  of 
very  plain,  coarse,  and  distasteful  food. 

Ko  beer,  no  gin,  no  fried  fish,  no  baked  York- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN  THE   SHEETS.  195 

shire-pudding,  no  hot  eel-soup,  no  baked  potatoes, 
no  tripe,  no  cow-heel,  no  liver  and  bacon,  no 
singed  sheep's-head:  a  pitiless  divorce  from  all 
these  things,  which,  to  the  criminal  tribes,  are 
held  eminently  toothsome  and  savory.  These 
deprivations  are,  to  the  felonious  mind,  ill  com- 
pensated for  by  allotted  rations  of  the  simplest 
character,  and  from  which  spicy  seasonings,  and 
especially  gravy — that  rich  juice  so  dear  to  all 
humanity — are  inexorably  banished.  Cocoa-nibs 
may  be  all  very  nutritious  and  wholesome  ;  but, 
ah  !  what  are  they  to  rum  and  milk  ?  Molasses 
may  be  a  comfort ;  but  what  is  treacle  in  com- 
parison with  the  dainties  dispensed  by  the  street- 
pieman  ? 

We  find  among  free  men — among  those  classes 
whose  members  are  not  periodically  locked  up  by 
the  country  for  the  country's  good — that  the 
want  of  variety  in  meals,  but  especially  as  re- 
gards breakfast,  is  surely  productive  of  numerous 
evils  to  the  body  politic.  Take  schools,  for  in- 
stance. From  year's  end  to  year's  end  the  hap- 
less infants  in  academies  for  young  gentlemen,  or 
seminaries  for  young  ladies,  are  condemned  to  a 
changeless  round  of  thick  brcad-and  butter  and 
sky-blue  milk-and-water. 

In  a  very  few  educational  establishments,  I  am 
told — not  one  in  halt*  a  hundred  probably — the 
weakest  of  weak  tea  is  served  out ;  a  mournful 


196 


decoction,  in  which,  luke-warm  water  preponder- 
ates, in  which  the  taste  of  brown  sugar  is  faintly 
felt,  bat  in  which  the  infusion  of  tea-leaves  is  in- 
finitesimal. Some  sprays  and  buds  of  a  strangely 
herbaceous  character  float  mournfully  on  the 
surface  of  this  so-called  tea  ;  and  the  entire  bev- 
erage has  a  depressing  and  enfeebling  effect  on 
the  consumer.  Nevertheless  such  tea— albeit  it 
is  but  a  scornful  misnomer  so  to  qualify  it — is 
reckoned  a  high  and  haughty  luxury,  to  be  re- 
joiced in  only  in  establishments  of  the  highest 
class ;  and  you  may  be  tolerably  certain  that 
the  generous  preceptors  who  give  tea  to  their 
scholars  do  not  forget  to  put  on  something 
extra  for  the  use  of  the  teapot  in  their  half-yearly 
bills. 

But  that  bread-and-butter  knows  no  change, 
It  may  be  that  it  is  part  of  the  private  educa- 
tional code  to  compel  the  housekeeper  to  cut  the 
young  people's  tartines  of  an  unwieldy  and  al- 
most unmasticatory  density.  I  suppose  that  it  is 
good  for  their  little  healths  that  the  bread  should 
be  stale.  "You  are  not  quite  so  insane  as  to  eat 
new  bread  ?"  my  medical  adviser  said  to  me  ;  but 
I  forgot  to  introduce  the  query  in  its  proper  place. 
I  might  have  told  him,  but  I  didn't,  that  I  always 
ate  new  bread,  and  suffered  accordingly. 

There  would  be  an  end,  of  course,  of  all  school- 
discipline  if  any  but  the  parlor-boarders  and  the 


rniLOSoray  between  the  sheets.        197 

teachers  were  permitted  to  eat  thin  bread-and- 
butter,  and  a  mutiny  would  be  the  infallible 
result  of  muffins.  Of  course  the  gradations  of 
authority  must  be  marked — in  no  place  with 
more  definite  force  than  in  a  school. 

When  a  child  is  decently  behaved,  he  gets 
thick  bread  with  very  little  butter  on  it.  When 
he  is  naughty,  he  has  dry  bread,  or,  under  cer- 
tain circumstances  of  disgrace,  no  bread  at  all ; 
but,  at  the  other  end  of  the  scale,  his  pastors  and 
masters,  his  good  and  wise  schoolmaster  or  school- 
mistress, revel  in  buttered  toast ;  delicious  cubes 
of  spongy  matter;  Bakat  lakoum,  " lumps  of 
delight,"  through  every  pore  of  which  the  olea- 
ginous glue  oozes.     'Tis  a  food  for  angels. 

When  I  was  at  school  in  England,  for  a  very 
short  time,  I  am  happy  to  say,  the  principal,  with 
a  touching  humility,  used  to  take  his  meals  with 
us.  He  and  his  wife  and  daughter  sat  at  a  cross 
table  :  we  had  the  immutable  bread-and-butter 
and  sky-blue  ;  they  had  bacon,  coffee,  muffins, 
buttered  toast.  How  often  has  my  young  soul 
yearned  to  make  an  onslaught  on  that  well-filled 
upper  end  of  the  board — "  groaning  beneath  all 
the  delicacies  of  the  season,"  as  the  reporters  are 
accustomed  to  say  of  the  annual  dinner  of  the 
Sparkenhoe  Farmers'  Club — and  carry  off  the 
middlemost  layer  of  that  mount  of  buttered  toast, 
even  at  the  risk  of  being  hanged,  expelled,  or 


198  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  \   OR, 

thrashed  within  an  inch  of  my  life  for  the  rash 
and  desperate  deed ! 

I  knew  a  schoolmaster  once  who,  at  the  end  of 
each  half,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  day  they 
went  home  for  the  holidays,  used  to  give  his  boys 
an  egg  for  breakfast.  Was  it  in  pure  liberality 
of  soul  that  the  donative  was  bestowed  ?  or  was 
it,  the  rather,  the  offspring  of  an  artful  ruse  on 
the  part  of  the  astute  pedagogue  ?  Did  he  think 
to  mollify  obdurate  boys,  to  condone  bygone 
grievances,  to  put  a  plaster  on  wheals  that  were 
yet  green  (or  black-and-blue)  on  boyish  limbs,  or 
to  stifle  nascent  complaints  which,  to  anxious 
and  inquiring  parents,  lie  apprehended  might  be 
made  ?  I  never  knew  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  he 
gave  his  boys  eggs  with  their  thick  bread-and- 
butter  and  their  sky-blue,  twice  a  year.  The 
stratagem — if  it  was  a  stratagem — the  generosity 
— if  generosity  indeed  it  was — were  both  thrown 
away. 

Schoolboys  are  lamentably  ungrateful.  My 
friend's  boys  laughed  his  eggs  to  scorn.  They 
imputed  to  him  the  worst  and  most  interested 
motives.  They  declared  the  eggs  to  be  musty. 
They  forebore  to  eat,  but  pocketed  them,  and 
pelted  one  another  with  them  in  the  playground. 
I  remember  a  boy  being  caned,  live  minutes  be- 
fore he  went  home  to  his  fond  parents,  for  secret- 
ing an  egg,  on  which  happening  inadvertently  to 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.      '    199 

sit,  lie  squashed  it,  to  the  subversion  of  the  good 
order  of  the  establishment  and  the  material  in- 
jury of  his  pantaloons.  The  egg-trick  ended  in 
inglorious  failure. 

I  think  that  if  you  were  to  canvass  a  large 
number  of  intelligent  boys,  you  would  find  the 
majority  against  bread-and-butter  a  very  numer- 
ous and  decided  one.  For  cake — plum  or  seedy 
— they  have  an  ungovernable  affection ;  bread 
and  cheese  even  they  will  not  spurn  at ;  of  pud- 
dings and  pies  they  will  devour,  unless  judiciously 
checked,  incalculable  quantities;  but  to  bread- 
and-butter,  unless  driven  by  the  pangs  of  abso- 
lute hunger,  they  are  generally  inclined  to  give 
a  contemptuous  go-by. 

I  was  formerly  aware  of  a  boarding-school, 
where  the  morning  and  evening  allowance  to  each 
boy  was  one  entire  slice  cut  right  round  a  quartern 
loaf,  and  divided  into  four  cubes  or  chunks.  "Now 
there  was  a  rule  in  the  school,  that  anybody 
having  eaten  his  allowance,  and  craving  more, 
should,  on  rising,  clearing  his  voice,  and  asking 
deferentially,  and  in  the  German  language,  if  he 
might  have  another  piece  of  bread-and-butter,  be 
entitled  to  an  additional  chunk.  I  think  the  for- 
mula ran  thus:  " Herr  Scldaghintem" —  this 
wasn't  the  schoolmaster's  name  ;  but  'twill  serve 
— "written,  Sic  so  gut  seyn  mir  noch  ein  Siuch 
ButUrbrod  zu  geben  ?"    The  condition  was  not  a 


200  BREAKFAST  IN  BED;   OR, 

very  onerous  one,  and  all  the  boys  in  the  school 
learnt  German  ;  yet  in  the  course  of  three  halves, 
I  only  knew  the  extra  chunk  to  be  claimed  by 
four  boys, 
f  Big  Jack  Lazenby,  whose  father  was  a  Baro- 
net, and  who  was  a  fool — bless  his  honest,  soft- 
hearted memory  ! — spoke  up  for  it,  because  an- 
other boy  had  made  him  a  bet  that  he  couldn't 
utter  four  words  in  German  without  making: 
three  blunders.  He  made  two  ;  but  these  lapses 
were  sufficient  to  deprive  him  of  the  coveted 
chunk.  Little  Harry  Skip  with  won  it  easily ; 
but  he  gave  it  away  to  his  next  neighbor  (Harry 
was  the  boy  who  had  a  rich  cake  once  a  fort- 
night, and  always  brought  five  guineas  to  school, 
at  the  commencement  of  a  new  half,  as  pocket- 
money).  Simon  Dollamore,  the  rich  City  man's 
son  (he  is  now  a  richer  man  than  his  father),  was 
the  densest  of  dunces  at  German ;  but  by  labori- 
ous plodding  he  contrived  to  master  the  mystic 
sentence,  and  having  obtained  the  chunk  over 
and  above,  sold  it  for  a  halfpenny.  The  com- 
mercial operation  was  brought  to  light,  and 
Simon  Dollamore,  besides  suffering  corporal  an- 
guish on  the  palms  of  his  hands  from  a  ruler,  was 
informed  no  further  proficiency  he  might  attain 
in  the  Teutonic  tongue  would  avail  in  his  obtain- 
ing extra  bread-and-butter.  The  fourth  claimant 
was  that  luckless  Gumbyle,  whose  father  was 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN   TEE   SHEETS.  201 

always  bankrupt,  and  consequently  neglected  to 
pay  for  the  board  and  education  of  his  son. 
GiiHibyle  was  egged-on  one  afternoon  to  rise  and 
claim  the  bread-and-butter  bonus  ;  but  he  hadn't 
got  farther  than  "  wollen  Sie  so  gut  seyn"  when 
our  revered  preceptor  inarched  up  to  him,  box- 
ed his  ears,  wondered  at  his  impudence,  and 
sternly  bade  him  sit  down  again  and  hold  his 
tongue. 

If  you  come  to  the  opposite  sex,  you  will  find 
quite  another  feeling  with  regard  to  bread-and- 
butter.  I  don't  believe  that  any  of  the  stories 
told  about  the  ravenous  fondness  of  school-girls 
for  Buttevorods  are  exaggerated.  I  know  a  lady 
who  went  to  school  at  Kensington,  and  there  the 
servants  put  the  bread-and-butter — when  they 
had  cut  it — for  tea  into  a  large  clothes-basket  to 
be  handed  round,  and  even  then  the  clothes- 
basket  would  be  found  all  too  small.  I  hope  I 
shall  not  be  contradicted  by  physiologists  when 
I  assert,  that  in  the  majority  of  instances  girls 
have  a  far  more  voracious  appetite  than  boys. 
From  nine  to  thirteen  a  girl  would  much  sooner 
have  a  slice  of  bread-and-butter  than  a  hoop,  a 
doll,  or  a  skipping-rope.  This  is  why  discreet 
governesses  are  able  entirely  to  dispense  with 
corporal  punishment  in  girls'  schools.  A  boy 
doesn't  care  much  about  being  deprived  of  a 
meal ;  a  girl  does.  If  you  were  to  ask  her  whe- 
9* 


202 


OE, 


tlier  she  preferred  having  her  cars  boxed  or  her 
knuckles  rapped  to  going  without  her  tea,  she 
would  answer — supposing  her  reply  to  be  per- 
fectly candid — in  the  affirmative.  Starvation  is 
a  quiet,  genteel,  unobtrusive  punishment.  It 
causes  no  frenzied  struggles,  no  violent  howling. 
It  is  very  cheap  ;  and  the  establishment  eaves 
money  by  the  culprits  who  are  put  au  pain  sec. 

There  comes  a  time,  however,  when  we  are 
our  own  masters  and  mistresses,  and  when  it  be- 
comes our,  often  grievous,  duty  to  order  our  own 
breakfasts.  The  question,  "  What;  shall  we  have 
for  breakfast  2"  is  a  far  more  difficult  one  to  solve 
than  "What  shall  we  have  for  dinner?"  W7e 
can  appeal  to  the  cook,  to  Soyer,  or  Francatelli, 
or  Dr.  Kitchener,  or  Lady  Clutterbuck,  or  to  the 
wife  of  our  bosom.  We  can  remember  some  of 
the  dainties  of  which  we  have  partaken  at  friends' 
houses,  or  at  places  of  public  resort  during  the 
past  week ;  or,  at  all  events,  we  can  throw  our- 
selves on  chops  and  steaks,  or  announce  our  in- 
tention of  dining  out.  But  breakfast  brings  a  far 
different  series  of  influences  into  play.  The  ques- 
tion is  a  momentous  one,  and  you  are  easily 
stranded.  If  you  are  a  family  man,  I  will  not 
assume  that  you  can  be,  save  in  cases  of  extreme 
rarity,  such  a  despicable  and  heartless  ruffian  as 
to  breakfast  away  from  home. 

I  know  there  are  some  men,  lost  to  all  sense 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN  THE   SHEETS.  203 

of  domestic  propriety — monsters  in  human  form 
— who,  with  a  stony  cynicism  and  unblushing 
hardihood,  will  abandon  their  Lares  and  Penates 
even  while — the  wretches  ! — the  kettle  is  sputter- 
ing on  the  hob  and  the  urn  simmering  on  the  ta- 
ble. These  bold  bad  men  will  go  shamelessly 
down  to  their  club  and  breakfast.  Their  insolent 
plea  is,  that  an  obsequious  waiter  will  at  once 
pour  into  their  ears  a  copious  catalogue  of  appe- 
tising things  that  can  be  had  for  breakfast — boil- 
ed,  grilled,  stewed,  devilled,  and  cold ;  that  eve- 
rything is  of  first-rate  quality,  and  served  with 
exquisite  neatness  and  admirable  expedition ;  that 
all  the  newspapers,  ready  cut,  are  at  hand ;  that 
no  single  knocks  from  duns  are  possible ;  and  that 
a  much  better  breakfast  than  can  be  had  at  home 
costs  much  less  money  than  it  would  among  the 
Lares  and  Penates. 

Should  you  meet,  my  son,  with  any  such 
hardened  men,  follow  my  counsel,  and  avoid 
them.  Their  ways  lead  as  surely  to  perdition  as 
a  latch-key  and  a  cigar-case  lead  to  the  unfa- 
thomable abyss  of  Sir  Cresswell  Cresswell's  court 
and  woe  unutterable. 


204:  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  ;   OE, 


OJST  HAYING  SEEN"  A  GHOST  AT  HOX- 

TOJST,  A1STD  THE  YEEY  DEUCE 

HIMSELF  IN  PAEIS. 

Misery,  we  all  know,  makes  a  man  acquainted 
with  strange  bedfellows ;  but  the  converse,  which 
might  be  suggested  to  such  a  proverb,  does  not 
hold.  Strange  beds  do  not  always  make  men 
miserable.  The  rather,  sometimes,  are  they  pro- 
ductive of  ease  and  gratulation  to  the  unaccus- 
tomed sleeper.  It  is  in  the  nature  of  mutable 
and  capricious  man  to  grow  weary  of  everything 
when  its  occupation  is  prolonged.  Satisfaction 
begets  sameness,  and  sameness  satiety ;  and  then 
we  yawn  and  toss  and  tumble  restlessly,  and  at 
last  come  to  curse  our  day,  as  Job  did. 

Couch  us  on  rose-leaves,  and  we  begin  to 
grumble  for  St.  Lawrence's  gridiron.  Softly 
smother  us  in  eider-down,  and,  with  ungrateful 
shrug,  we  declare  that  we  should  like  a  hea]?of 
red-hot  coals  by  way  of  a  change.  When  St. 
Louis  was  dying,  he  caused  himself  to  be  stretch- 
ed on  a  bed  of  ashes.  Was  that  act  of  mortifica- 
tion due  to  pure,  virtuous  asceticism,  think  you, 
or  to  sheer  weariness  of  soft  feather-beds  and 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  205 

silken  hangings  \  There  are  seasons  when  the 
roomiest  four-poster,  the  snuggest  Arabian,  pall 
upon  and  disgust  us  ;  when  we  would  gladly  ex- 
change the  fluted  silk  of  the  alcove  for  the  white- 
washed walls  of  the  hospital  dormitory. 

Mattresses,  paillasses,  jmd  feather-beds,  bol- 
sters, pillows,  and  counterpanes,  are  all  very 
well;  but,  ah,  for  the  delights  of  a  swinging 
hammock  or  a  camp-bedstead ! — ah,  for  the  in- 
vigorating change  of  a  night  in  the  open  air, 
with  the  stars  for  a  canopy,  and  nothing  but  a 
buffalo-robe  between  yourself  and  mother  earth ! 

How  glorious  it  is,  for  example,  to  retire  to 
rest  with  a  carpet-bag  under  your  head,  and 
wake  up  in  the  morning  your  cranium  a  mass 
of  abnormal  bumps,  embossed  there  by  contact 
with  subjacent  hair-brushes,  pomatum-pots,  and 
boot-heels ! 

How  charming  to  repose  by  the  bivouac-fire, 
and  discover  on  the  morrow  that  your  toes  have 
been  half  burnt  off!  And  the  pleasant  nights 
when  you  don't  go  to  bed  at  all! — when  you 
pace  the  deck,  a  cigar  between  your  lips  ;  or  are 
jolted  from  side  to  side  of  a  railway  carriage ; 
or  sink  into  a  troubled  slumber  in  the  imverlale 
of  a  diligence,  with  your  head  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  condiccteur,  who  very  summarily  shakes 
you  off  every  time  the  coach  stops  to  change 
horses. 


206  ■  BREAKFAST   I2T   BED  ;   OR, 

During  the  whole  of  the  month  of  June  just 
past,  I  have  been  sleeping  in  very  strange  beds, 
and  eating  stranger  breakfasts  in  them.  I  have 
been  a  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and 
have  mooned  half  over  Europe.  I  have  drunk 
the  waters  of  unwonted  rivers.  The  Seine  I  have 
seen,  the  Marne,  the  Meuse,  the  Scheldt,  the 
Rhine,  the  Moselle,  and  the  decker;  yea,  and 
the  Maine,  the  Inn,  the  Adige,  the  Arno,  the  Po, 
and  the  Rhone. 

Several  nights,  a  dozen,  perhaps,  I  have  passed 
in  my  clothes,  and  without  thinking  of  sleep ; 
but  on  all  other  occasions  I  have  Breakfasted 
consistently  in  Bed.  It  is  the  fashion  in  outland- 
ish countries  so  to  do  ;  at  least  to  consume  break- 
fast number  one  between  the  sheets.  Breakfast 
number  two,  the  dejeuner  a  la  fourcheite^  I  cau- 
tiously abjure,  fearing  apoplexy. 

I  came  abroad,  when  May  was  on  the  wane, 
with  two  brisk  and  valiant  young  Englishmen, 
determined  to  do  at  Rome — whither  we  didn't  go 
— as  the  Romans  did,  and  at  Paris  as  the  Paris- 
ians. They  astounded  and  humbled  me,  an  old 
and  experienced  traveller  as  I  deemed  myself, 
by  their  fluent  acquaintance  with  Continental 
customs,  especially  those  relating  to  eating  and 
drinking. 

"  Cafe  au  lait  and  bread-and-butter  in  bed  at 
8  A.M.,  of  course, "  quoth  Englishman  number 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN  THE   SHEETS.  207 

one.  "And  then,"  pursued  the  second  Anglo- 
Saxon,  in  loud  and  strident  tone,  u  at  half-past 
twelve  or  so,  we  go  out  to  a  cafe,  and  have  our 
regular  breakfast — our  dejeuner  d  la  fourchette  : 
eggs  on  the  plate,  a  hiftek  coux  pommes,  and  so 
forth,  and  a  bottle  of  Bordeaux  apiece." 

In  tremulous  horror  I  shrunk  from  this  alarm- 
ing programme.  Protest  I  dared  not,  for  my 
Englishmen  were  stout  and  strong,  and  would 
have  beaten  me  ;  but  I  meekly  represented  that  I 
was  accustomed  to  consume  only  two  meals  a 
clay  ;  that  to  partake  of  animal  food  at  noon 
would  be  about  equivalent  to  signing  my  death- 
warrant;  that,  in  my  opinion,  after  a  substantial 
breakfast,  a  Christian  man  wanted  nothing  but 
a  crust  of  bread  and  a  glass  of  wine  till  dinner- 
time ;  and  that  to  imbibe  the  contents  of  a  bottle 
of  Bordeaux  for  lunch  would  surely  cause  me  to 
spin  round  like  a  tee-totum  on  the  Boulevard,  or 
commit  an  aggravated  assault  on  the  nearest  ser- 
gent  cle  mile. 

"  Milksop  !"  I  heard  one  of  my  companions 
murmur.  "  Hypocrite  !"  muttered  the  other. 
"  I  told  you  so.  Coats  of  the  stomach  quite  gone. 
Healthy  appetite  lost  for  ever.  Wants  to  slink 
out  and  breakfast  by  himself  on  raw  artichokes 
and  absinthe." 

To  clear  myself  from  these  cruel  aspersions,  I 
gave  up  my  point,  and  fell  into  their  ways,  at  the 


208  BREAKFAST   IN    BED  ;   OS, 

imminent  risk  of  tumbling  down  with  a  coup  de 
sang.  Ye  Lars  and  Lemures,  how  those  two 
young  men  ate  and  drank  !  And  yet  they  seemed 
none  the  worse  for  their  excesses.  I  love  them 
both,  I  esteem  them  both  ;  but  I  declare  I  felt  a 
grim  satisfaction  when  they  departed  from  me, 
and  left  me  to  continue  my  journey  alone  and 
practise  a  sullen  abstemiousness,  for  which  I  feel 
none  the  better. 

So  I  took  to  Breakfasting  in  Bed  at  any  hour 
I  chose,  and  reading  in  bed,  and  day-dreaming 
in  bed,  and  talking  to  myself  in  bed,  and  some- 
times groaning  in  bed,  and  occasionally,  as  foreign 
fire-insurances  were  no  concern  of  mine,  smoking 
in  bed.  There  is  much  virtue  in  an  early  morn- 
ing cigarette.  If  you  presumed  to  smoke  in  bed 
in  England,  those  who  became  acquainted  witk 
your  habit  would  declare  you  to  be  a  Socinian, 
or  a  Freethinker,  or  hint  that  you  poisoned  your 
wife,  or  were  on  the  brink  of  bankruptcy.  But 
there  are,  happily,  so  many  things  you  can  do 
abroad  which  you  cannot  do  at  home.  Such,  at 
least,  has  been  my  experience.  There  are  advan- 
tages fro  and  privations  contra,  I  grant.  On  the 
one  hand,  you  escape  from  tutelage,  from  be- 
ing scolded,  from  being  asked  what  you  would 
like  for  dinner,  from  receiving  penny-post  letters 
and  morning  visits,  from  being  told  that  the  Gas 
has  called  again,  and  that  the  coals  are  out,  and 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN  THE    SHEETS.  209 

from  reading  the  "  Saturday  Review  "  on  your 
last  literary  performance. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  one  to  "  share 
your  cup,"  or  cheer  it,  or  pour  it  out,  or  sweeten 
it,  or  throw  it  at  you.  There  is  no  one  to  part 
your  hair  or  tie  your  scarf.  There  is  no  one  to 
give  the  soft  answer  which  turnetli  away  wrath, 
or  to  utter  the  wrathful  taunt  which  the  soft  an- 
swer assuages — sometimes. 

On  the  whole,  I  think  it  a  pleas  int  thing,  and 
useful  and  wholesome,  to  stay  away  now  and 
then  from  your  bed  and  board.  'T !  s  sweet  to  hear 
the  dulcet  tones  of  "  Willie,  we  have  missed  you," 
on  your  return  ;  and  if  your  name  doesn't  hap- 
pen to  be  "Willie,  and  you  don't  hear  the  dulcet 
tones  above  mentioned,  it  is,  at  least,  edifying  to 
the  philosophical  mind  to  discover  how  comfort- 
ably the  world  has  gone  on  in  your  absence,  and 
how  charmingly  people  have  managed  without 
you.  ^ 

This  morning  I  am  Breakfasting  in  Bed  at  an 
hotel  on  the  Boulevard  Poissonniere,  Paris,  and 
I  cry  "Ha!  ha!"  over  my  cafe  aio  lait ;  for, 
with  the  consistency  of  inconsistency,  I  have  by 
this  time  grown  tired  of  wandering,  and  strange 
breakfasts,  and  strange  beds,  and  am  longing  for 
the  old  London  treadmill,  and  the  old  delightful 
condition  of  always  wanting  to  do  what  I  like 
and  never  being  allowed  to  do  it.     I  cry  "  Ha ! 


210  BREAKFAST   IN  BED;   OB, 

lia  !"  for  this  night  I  am  bound  to  London  town, 
no  more  to  leave  it  till  I  cross  the  Atlantic  wave, 
the  which,  for  aught  I  know,  may  transform 
itself  betwixt  this  and  August  into  the  dull 
rolling  billow  of  the  leaden-hued  Styx.  I 
besought  my  bed-maker,  who  is  of  the  male  per- 
suasion— and.  like  the  majority  of  his  brother 
chambermen,  a  strong  politician,  a  very  civil 
and  obliging  fellow,  and  a  shameless  rogue — I 
besought  Antoine  to  fetch  me  "  Figaro." 

This  is  Thursday  morning,  and  a  new  number 
is  due.  Antoine  is  Lugo,  fa  presto  in  his  move- 
ments— when  he's  paid  to  be  quick — and  with 
celerity  he  brings  me  "  Figaro  " — not  the  witty 
barber  of  Seville,  but  the  scarcely  less  witty 
journal  non  politique  of  Paris.  It  is  delightful 
reading  in  bed.  I  am  skimming  over  the  chron- 
ique  and  the  nouvelles  d  la  main  when  my  eye 
lights  on  the  following  paragraph  : 

"  M.  Lambert  Thiboust,  dramatic  author,  and 
M.  Ebstein,  ditector  of  the  Theatre  du  Chatelet, 
have  left  Paris  for  London,  in  order  to  investi- 
gate a  trick  (un  true)  which  is  said  to  have  had 
great  success  on  the  English  stage.  "We  will  say 
nothing  of  the  nature  of  this  trick  in  order  to 
detract  from  the  astonishment  which  will  surely 
be  created  by  its  appearance  in  Paris.  Nor  as 
yet  will  wTe  mention  the  piece  in  which  the  said 
trick  is  to  be  introduced.     It  is  one  of  Miss 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  211 

Aurora's  Secrets."  (C'est  le  secret  de  Miss 
Aurore.) 

What  is  this  wonderful  trick?  I  asked  myself. 
Has  anybody  succeeded  in  walking  into  a  quart 
bottle,  or  making  the  Soho  Theatre  pay,  since  I 
left  Loudon  ?  Have  MM.  Lambert  Tliiboust  and 
Hostein  gone  to  study  the  art  of  trickery  under 
Mr.  Diana  Boucicault  ? 

By  the  way,  M.  Hostein,  your  last  visit  to 
London  was  not  of  a  very  gratifying  character. 
Do  you  remember  the  year  ?  It  was  '48.  Do 
you  remember  the  piece  you  produced  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre  ?  It  was  "  Monte  Christo."  Do 
you  remember  the  result  ?     It  was  a  riot. 

A  stormy  period  was  '48.  Kings  were  being 
toppled  oft'  their  thrones  all  over  Europe,  and 
" Monte  Christo"  wras  hooted  off  the  stage  of  old 
Drury  in  the  midst  of  an  uproar  to  which  the 
O.  P.  row  must  have  been  angelic  calmness. 

Long  I  wondered  and  pondered  over  this  mys- 
terious true.  Had  it  anything  to  do  with  the 
"  infamous  truck  system  ?"  Could  it  claim 
kindred  with  Mr.  Gladstone's  budget,  or  Mr. 
Disraeli's  policy  ?  "Was  it  the  bottle-trick,  or 
the  skeleton-trick,  or  the  globe-of-gold-tish  trick 
of  our  conjurors  and  pantomimists  ?  Surely,  no. 
Those  amusing  deceptions  are  notoriously  of 
foreign  origin,  and  we  have  but  taken  French 
leave  in  adapting  them  en  our  boards.     At  last 


212  BREAKFAST   EST   BED  ;    OR 

I  saw  a  clue,  and  cried  out  Eureka.  The  Secret 
of  Miss  Aurore  !  Why,  under  that  queer  title 
"  Figaro  "  is  now  publishing,  in  a  bi-weekly  sup- 
plement, a  translation  of  the  famous  novel  of 
"Aurora  Floyd ;"  and  who  but  the  translator  told 
me  that  M.  Hostein  is  about  to  produce  the  said 
Secret  cle  Mademoiselle  Aarore  as  ■  a  grand 
melodramic  spectacle  at  the  Chatelet,  and  has 
positively  engaged  poor  old  Frederic  Lemaitre 
to  fill  the  part  of  "  the  Softy."  The  true  must  be 
the  admired  Ghost-trick  of  Professor  Pepper  and 
Mr.  Dircks ;  and,  with  the  characteristic  hardi- 
hood and  scornful  independence  of  the  unities 
of  proprietors  and  the  probabilities  of  French 
dramatic  authors,  M.  Lambert  Thiboust>  is  about 
to  present  the  Parisian  public  with  Aurora  Floyd 
and  a  Ghost  into  the  bargain.  Poor  Miss  Aurora ! 
poor  Mrs.  J.  Mellish  !  Who  would  ever  have 
thought  of  that  vivacious  young  lady  addicting 
herself  to  spirit-rapping  ? 

Rendering  due  justice  to  the  genius  and  enter- 
prise of  MM.  Lambert  Thiboust  and  Hostein, 
and  only  marvelling  as  to  the  particular  part  of 
Miss  Braddon's  romance  into  which  they  could 
contrive  to  pop  Professor  Pepper's  Ghost,  my 
vagrant  thoughts  revert  to  Iloxton  town,  in  the 
borough  of  Finsbury,  England.  'Twas  there, 
last  May,  I  saw  the  real,  Pepperian,  hair-stand- 
on-end-compelling  Ghost.     But  five  weeks  since  ! 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN"  THE   SHEETS.  213 

It  seems  an  age  to  me ;  and  even,  dramatically 
speaking,  it  seems  a  year. 

Theatres  and  theatres  have  I  beheld  since  Mr. 
Lane  gave  me  a  box  for  the  Britannia.  The 
Paris  Grand  Opera,  the  Cirque,  and  the  Chatelet, 
I  took  first.  Next  came  the  clean,  commodious 
theatre  at  Frankfort-on-the-Main,  where  I  heard 
Meyerbeer's  "  Dinorah  "  and  Gounod's  "  Faust." 
Then  I  dropped  down  to  Munich,  and  saw  "  Guil- 
laumeTell"  from  the  stalls  of  the  magnificent 
Maximilian  Theatre.  Then  the  Genius  of  Vaga- 
bondism wafted  me  through  the  Tyrol,  and  down 
to  Yerona,  and  landed  me  at  Yenice ;  where,  alas ! 
I  found  the  sumptuous  Fenice  shut  up  these  five 
years,  the  San  Benedetto  doomed  also  to  chronic 
closing,  and  only  one  little  trumpery  dramatic 
temple  open,  the  Teatro  Malibran,  admission 
to  the  boxes  thirty  kreutzers  (about  eightpence). 

"What  do  you  think  they  were  playing  at  the 
Teatro  Malibran  ?  11  Segreto  cli  Miladi  Audlei — 
"  Lady  Audley's  Secret !"  In  the  official  Gazette 
of  Yenice — a  stern  journal,  full  of  rugose  decrees 
from  Yienna,  and  alarming  police-edicts — I  found 
the  feuilleton  to  be  an  Italian  translation  of  an 
English  novel.  For  completeness'  sake,  it  should 
have  been  either  "  Aurora  Floyd "  or  "  Lady 
Audley's  Secret;"  but  it  happened,  for  a  wonder, 
'  to  be  something  else.  It  was  only  Mrs.  Henry 
Wood's  "  East  Lynne," 


214  BREAKFAST    IN   BED;    OS, 

Back,  back  to  Hoxton,  fugitive  remembrances. 
Hoxton !  where  is  Hoxton  %  I  declare  I  don't 
know.  '•  Hear  him  I"  Hircius  and  Spxmgius 
yelp.  "  Hear  the  base  upstart  plead  ignorance 
as  to  the  whereabouts  of  Hoxton.  Hear  him  try 
to  ape  the  dead  cynic  who  asked  where  Russell 
Square  was.  Hoxton,  and  be  hanged  to  him  ! 
As  though  he  never  ate  fried  fish,  or  tramped 
about,  shoeless,  there."  Well,  H.  and  S.,  I  donH 
know  where  Hoxton  is.  It  is  somewhere  near 
the  City  Road,  I  think  ;  but  I  have  not  the  least 
idea  in  what  particular  locality. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  Lane,  and  with  Ins  customary 
urbanity  he  wrote  back  to  say  that  he  should  be 
glad  to  see  me  at  Hoxton.  As  I  was  pressed  for 
time,  and  there  happened  to  be  a  lady  in  the  case 
on  the  appointed  evening,  I  had  a  cab  from 
Bloomsbury  to  Hoxton,  and  I  had  a  cab  back ; 
and,  from  that  day  to  this,  I  have  not  been  able 
to  acquire  more  than  the  vaguest  and  mistiest 
notion  of  what  Hoxton  is  like,  or  where  it  is 
situated,  or  what  are  the  manners  and  customs  of 
its  inhabitants. 

I  apprehend,  however,  that  there  must  be 
several  millions  of  people  in  Hoxton.  The  child- 
dren  swarm  there  to  such  an  extent,  that  had 
Professor  Pepper  and  Mr.  Dircks,  C.E.,  raised 
the  ghost  of  the  late  Rev.  Mr.  Malthus  in  lieu  of 
that  of  the at  the  Britannia,  the  spectre  of 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWZEH"   THE   SHEETS.  215 

the  famous  anti-population  theorist  would  hare 
turned  green  with  rage  at  the  sight  of  so  many 
human  beings  promising  adolescence.  Anti- 
Malthusian  doctrines  were  happily  at  a  discount 
at  Mr.  Lane's  establishment,  whither  the  millions 
(more  or  less)  of  Hoxton  had  on  the  particular 
May  night  in  question  despatched  a  varied  depu- 
tation, a  few  thousands  strong,  to  see  the  Ghost. 
There  were  a  great  many  children  in  the  theatre ; 
but  they  were  all  remarkably  quiet,  hushed  to 
stillness  probably  by  apprehension,  by  anticipa- 
tion of  the  Phantom.  If  there  were  any  babies 
in  arms  among  the  audience,  their  mothers  and 
nurses  must  have  taken  very  good  care  of  them  ; 
for,  from  beginning  to  end  of  the  entertainment, 
I  heard  not  one  squall.  Perhaps  these  Hoxtonian 
infants,  with  a  wisdom  beyond  their  years,  were 
aware  of  the  salutary  edicts  levelled  by  the- 
management  against  babyhood  of  a  nature  so 
vociferous  as  to  interfere  with  the  general  com- 
fort of  the  spectators.  Perhaps  they  stuffed  their 
little  fists  into  their  little  mouths,  held  their  little 
breaths,  and  cheerfully  martyrized  themselves,  in 
order  not  to  mar  the  decorous  procession  of  the 
Ghost.  At  any  rate,  they  were  eclifyingly  un- 
demonstrative ;  and  if,  when  they  returned  home, 
they  compensated  for  their  prolonged  taciturnity 
by  roarings  the  most  deafening  and  squallings 
the  most  ear-piercing,  small  blame  to  the  babies 
of  Eoxton,  say  I. 


216 


It  would  be  unjust  to  deny  the  grown-up  por- 
tion of  a  closely-packed  auditory  a  well-merited 
good  word.  I  am  not  of  those  who  habitually 
and  glibly  compliment  the  working-classes  on 
their  ci  exemplary  good  behavior,"  and  who  think 
it  rather  a  marvellous  and  phenomenal  circum- 
stance, when  two  or  three  thousand  honest  and 
hard-working  people  are  gathered  together,  that 
they  do  not  immediately  proceed  to  poke  their 
fingers  through  the  pictures,  mutilate  the  statues, 
smash  the  glass  cases,  root  up  and  trample  clown 
the  flower-beds,  and  tear  up  the  benches  of  the 
galleries,  museums,  palaces,  and  theatres  in  which 
they  are  permitted  gratuitously  or  by  payment  to 
disport  themselves.  I  do  not  volunteer  such 
conventional  panegyrics,  because  1  hold  them  to 
be  perfectly  uncalled  for  and  grossly  impertinent, 
and  because  1  am  bold  enough  to  think  that  the 
working-classes  know  quite  as  well  as  the  non- 
working-classes  can  do  how  to  behave  themselves 
in  public  and  in  private,  and  do,  not  unfrecpiently , 
behave  themselves  a  great  deal  better. 

Still  was  there  something  in  the  aspect  of  this 
vast  Britannia  throng  calling  for  something  more 
than  trite  and  perfunctory  commendation.  It 
was  a  Saturday  night,  and  the  majority  of  the 
working  people  there  must  have  had  their  wages 
in  their  pockets,  or— the  next  thing  to  it— in  the 
pockets  of  the  buxom  wives  who,  as  a  praiseworthy 
rule,  accompanied  them.    I  did  not  see,  nor  indeed 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN  THE   SHEETS.  217 

could  any  one  else,  unless  provided  with  the 
double-million  magnifiers  recommended  by  Mr. 
Samuel  Weller,  any  disposition  on  the  part  of 
this  dense  throng  in  fustian  and  corduroy  to  rush 
out  to  the  nearest  beer-shops  and  gin-palaces  to 
squander  their  ready  money  in  intoxicating 
liquors,  to  return  in  a  frantic  state  to  batter  and 
bruise  their  wives  and  families  with  pint  pots, 
legs  of  tables,  and  other  lethal  weapons  of  a  blunt 
nature ;  and  then,  after  pawning  their  saws  and 
chisels,  and  running  up  scores  on  account  of  next 
week's  wages,  to  assure  Mr.  Solly,  and  the  editor 
of  the  "British  "Workman,"  and  other  friends  of 
the  enslaved  and  oppressed,  that  "  the  drink  had 
done  it  all,"  and  that  the  only  remedy  for  this 
alarming  state  of  things  was  to  petition  the  Legis- 
lature for  the  immediate  enactment  of  the  Maine 
liquor-law,  and  the  wholesale  closing  of  public- 
houses  on  week-days  in  general,  and  from  Satur- 
day night  to  Monday  morning  in  particular.  I 
opine  that,  among  the  working-classes — as  among^ 
the  middle  classes,  and  the  "  upper  middle 
classes  "  (wherever  they  may  be),  and  the  upper 
classes,  including  the  most  ineffably  Brahminical, 
with  the  yellowest  streaks  of  caste  on  their  fore- 
heads— there  is,  has  been,  and  ever  will  be,  a 
certain  per  centage  of  human  hogs  who  choose 
to  wallow  in  their  own  or  the  nearest  licensed 
victualler's  stye,  and  to  go  to  the  devil  in  their 
10 


218  BEEAKFAST   IN   BED  ;   OK, 

own  way.  Of  the  Hoxton  hogs,  the  average  per 
centage  were  doubtless  getting  howling,  snivel- 
ling, or  dumb  drunk  at  the  adjacent  public- 
houses.  It  is  certain  that  they  were  not  at  the 
Britannia  to  see  the  Ghost ;  and  it  is  equally  cer- 
tain that,  under  even  the  slightest  influence  of 
alcohol,  they  would  not  have  been  allowed  to 
pass  the  outer  barriers  of  the  theatre. 

The  occupants  of  the  "  auditorium  "  were,  as  a 
rule,  a  great  deal  soberer  than  I  have  often  seen, 
after  dinner,  the  occupants  of  stalls  and  the  back 
seats  of  the  dress-circle  at  "West-End  theatres ;  but 
their  sobriety  was  due  to  no  teetotal  code,  to  no 
compulsory  Lane  liquor-laws.  There  is  an  abun- 
dance of  refreshment-counters  attached  to  the 
Britannia  Theatre.  Beer  between  the  acts  is  a 
recognised  institution,  and  is  extensively  drunk 
on  the  premises.  There  is  even  a  smoking-room, 
just  as  there  is  to  be  a  fumoir  at  the  new  Paris 
Opera  House ;  nor,  I  believe,  are  those  whose 
purses  will  support  the  expense  debarred  from 
partaking  of  hot  and  cold  brandy-and- water,  or 
champagne,  or  Johannisberg,  or  ITippocras,  or 
Imperial  Tokay,  if  they  like  to  order  it,  and  to 
pay  for  it,  and  it  happen  to  be  in  the  stock  of  the 
Britannia  cellars. 

There  was  a  great  deal  to  be  seen  before  the 
great  attraction  of  the  evening — the  Ghost — wa« 
manifest.     There  was  the  house  itself  to  gaze  at. 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  219 

densely  thronged,  as  I  have  said,  "but  not  uncom- 
fortably so.  In  boxes  as  in  gallery,  in  stalls  as 
in  pit,  every  one  had  ample  scope  and  verge  to  sit 
at  ease,  and,  in  the  intervals  of  the  pieces,  and 
at  the  close  of  the  entire  entertainment,  to  circu- 
late and  depart  without  let  or  hindrance.  The 
"  vomitoria,"  as  Mr.  Boucicault  would  call  them, 
were  numerous,  and  skilfully  constructed;  and 
it  was  quite  wonderful  to  see,  when  the  night's 
diversions  had  been  brought  to  a  close,  in  how 
short  a  period  of  time — a  few  moments  only  it 
seemed — the  immense  area,  so  lately  black  with 
humanity,  was  deserted.  Then  there  were  the 
decorations  of  the  house  to  admire — decorations, 
fittings,  and  appointments  all  handsome,  tasteful, 
and  commodious,  without  being  either  prodigal 
or  meretricious. 

The  stage  of  the  Britannia  is  really  superb  both 
for  size  and  proportions : — the  width  of  the  pro- 
scenium surprising.  There  is  a  very  artistically- 
executed  drop-curtain ;  and  of  the  scenery,  pro- 
perties and  dresses,  all  that  I  saw  was  not  only 
creditable,  but  of  a  degree  of  excellence  which 
would  by  no  means  have  suffered  by  comparison 
with  the  haughtiest  theatres  of  the  West.  And 
why  should  it  so  have  suffered,  I  should  like  to 
know?  The  Britannia  audience  know  a  good 
thing  when  they  see  it,  quite  as  well  as  other 
people  ;  nay,  can  at  times  be  curiously  apprecia- 


220  BEEAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    0E, 

tive  and  nicely  critical.  "We  doesn't  expect 
grammar  at  the  "Wic,"  once  cried  out  a  gentle- 
man in  the  gallery,  at  the  well-known  home  of 
transpontine  melodrama  when  an  unusually  ill- 
set  scene  was  put  upon  the  stage — "  we  doesn't 
expect  grammar;  hut  you  might  jine  your  flats." 

The  Britannia  audience  are  in  advance  of  the 
Victorians,  and  would  certainly  resent,  not  only 
badly-joined,  but  carelessly-painted  "  flats  ;"  nay, 
more  than  this,  from  the  slight  experience  I  have 
had  of  the  establishment,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  grammatical  accuracy  is  by  no  means  a  drug 
in  the  market  at  Hoxton,  and  that  very  unmis- 
takable signs  of  disapprobation  would  be  appa- 
rent were  Priscian's  head  to  be  broken  too  fre- 
quently and  in  too  outrageous  a  manner  in  the 
course  of  one  evening. 

I  frankly  confess,  that  of  the  great  spectacu- 
lar, non-natural,  preternatural,  supernatural,  and 
thoroughly  Hoxtonian  melodrama  of  "  TheWidow 
and  the  Orphan ;  or,  Faith,  Hope  and  Charity" — 
if,  at  this  distance  of  time  and  place,  I  am  able 
to  quote  the  title  aright — I  am  unable  to  give 
anything  beyond  a  very  confused  and  involved 
account.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  couldn't  make  any- 
thing of  the  piece.  It  was  too  much  for  me. 
The  plot  was  too  complicated,  the  action  too 
rapid,  the  incidents  were  too  grandiose  for  my  in- 
tellectual capacity. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  221 

I  am  destitute  of  the  faculty  of  comprehensive 
criticism.  I  cannot  understand  an  aggregate. 
Give  me  a  minute  point,  a  subdivided  section, 
and  I  can  concentrate  my  attention  on  it  and  dis- 
course about  it,  tant  Men  que  mat.  But  the  task 
of  comprehending  a^he  Widow  and  the  Orphan" 
was  ten  times  too  Herculean  for  me.  I  know 
that  the  widow  was  a  very  neat  and  dapper  widow 
— as  widows  go — brimming  over  with  moral  sen- 
timents of  the  most  unobjectionable  character ; 
in  short,  a  pattern  to  all  widows,  past,  present 
and  to  come.  There  were  two  orphans,  also,  I 
think.  One  was  meek,  mild,  uncomplaining ;  the 
other  sprightly,  vivacious,  and  facetious,  and 
"keeping  her  pecker  up" — to  employ  an  expres- 
sion which  would  be  intolerably  vulgar,  I  am 
afraid,  even  at  Hoxton  (why  even  at  Hoxton  ?  is 
there  no  slang  in  high  places  ?) — under  the  most 
adverse  circumstances.  I  think  the  part  of  the 
sprightly  and  vivacious  orphan  was  filled  by  Mrs. 
Lane,  the  manager's  wife,  and  the  lady  to  whom 
much  of  the  admirable  discipline,  organization, 
and  tasteful  arrangement  which  have  made  the 
Britannia  a  model  to  all  London  theatres  is 
due. 

I  am  not  certain,  but  this  I  opine,  that  the 
sprightly  and  vivacious  orphan  could  be  also, 
upon  occasion,  sentimental  and  pathetic,  and  was 
throughout  graceful  and  ladylike.     Then  there 


222  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  ;    OK, 

was  a  baronet  in  Hessian  boots,  and  a  wig  and  a 

cocked-hat,  if  my  remembrance  serves  me,  and 
who  was,  perhaps,  one  of  the  wickedest,  cruellest, 
and  most  hypocritical  old  miscreants  ever  per- 
mitted to  infest  the  neighborhood  of  Hoxton,  or 
anywhere  else. 

"What  showers  of  five-cent  pieces  and  decayed 
apples  they  would  have  cast  on  his  congener  on 
the  Boulevard  du  Crime  !  *  What  a  storm  of  pea- 
nuts would  have  assailed  him  at  the  Bowery? 
The  less  demonstrative  Britannia  audience  were 
content  to  shudder  at  his  enormities,  without 
pelting  him.  To  this  most  depraved  and  flagi- 
tious member  of  the  aristocracy  perjury  was  a 
pastime,  and  bearing  false-witness  a  bagatelle. 
He  lied  himself  black  in  the  face  habitually. 
His  profligacy  was  equal  to  his  perfidy.  Who 
but  he  locked  up  one  of  the  orphans  on  a  per- 
fectly unsustainable  charge,  thereby  laying  him- 
self open  to  an  action  and  heavy  damages  for 
false  imprisonment,  and  then — the  hardened  old 
sinner ! — wanted  to  "  square"  matters  by  marry- 
ing her?  It  is  needless  to  say  that  his  proffered 
hand  was  disdainfully  refused  by  the  wronged 
and  outraged  orphan. 

It  was  this  baronet  who  saw — but  I  am  fore- 
stalling matters.  This  hoary-headed  villain  had 
a  son— at  least,  he  hadn't  a  son,  for  the  young 
man  turned  out  in  the  last  act  to  be  somebody 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN    THE    SHEETS.  223 

else's — whom  he  was  continually  cursing,  betray- 
ing, cheating,  turning  out  of  doors,  and  cutting 
off  with  a  shilling;  adding,  besides,  insult  to  in- 
jury, by  calling  him  abusive  names,  and  threat- 
ening him  with  his  walking-stick.  There  were 
two  more  villains  in  the  piece: — one  a  returned 
convict  in  high  boots  and  a  hairy  cap,  who 
looked  Norfolk  Island  all  over,  with  a  dash  of 
Bermuda,  a  tincture  of  Swan  River,  and  a  per- 
vading flavor  of  the  New  Cut ;  the  other  a  des- 
perate ruffian  in  black  whiskers,  a  red  waistcoat, 
and  leather  gaiters,  who,  in  the  first  instance,  was 
ready  for  any  crime,  from  pitch-and-toss  up  to 
manslaughter — nay,  beyond  that  last-named  of- 
fence, for  he  devoted  himself  to  assassination  as 
blithely  as  Saltabadil  in  "  Le  Hoi  s' Amuse,"  and 
tuait  a  la  ca?npagne,  ou  en  mile. 

Ultimately,  be  it  recorded,  to  the  honor  of  hu- 
man nature  and  the  confusion  of  the  theorists 
who  maintain  that  crime  is  incurable,  this  aban- 
doned scoundrel  became  softly  and  sentimentally 
virtuous — quite  a  pastoral  character,  in  fact — ■ 
and  was  instrumental  in  rescuing  one  of  the  or- 
phans who  had  been  pitched  down  a  well,  recov- 
ering a  stolen  lease,  and  bringing  the  depraved 
baronet  to  justice. 

Then  there  was  a  comic  groom,  who  afterwards 
became  an  agriculturist,  and  who  elicited  shouts 
of  laughter  both  in  his  livery  cockade  and  top- 


224: 


boots,  and  in  his  smock-frock  and  wide-awake. 
I  am  glad  to  say  that  he  made  my  sides  ache, 
too,  in  a  most  unaccustomed  manner,  although  I 
did  not  in  the  least  know  what  -I  was  laughing 
*at.  There  were  two  bailiffs,  and,  if  I  mistake 
not,  some  of  the  county  police  concerned  in  the 
later  transactions  of  the  evening. 

There  was  a  house  on  fire — a  very  carefully- 
managed  conflagration,  in  the  midst  of  which  Mr. 
Hodges'  fire-engine,  or  its  twin  brother,  made  its 
appearance  on  the  stage;  and  I  fancied  that  I 
could  discern  among  the  attendant  supers  the 
agile  form  of  the  Duke  of  Sutherland.  If  his 
Grace  wasn't  there,  the  Earl  of  Caithness  must 
have  been.  Finally,  there  was  a  mysterious  indi- 
vidual of  ripe — almost  overripe — age,  with  very 
thin  legs,  and  a  smock-frock  very  much  patched, 
a  pillicock  hat,  and  a  basket  containing  either 
rags,  bones,  or  chickweed  at  his  back. 

This  ancient  party  was  continually  stumping 
about  with  a  crooked  staff,  interfering  with  every- 
body's business,  but  with  ultimately  beneficent 
intentions.  He  was  a  violent  democrat,  and 
when  the  baronet  called  him  an  "  old  pauper," 
made  that  unfeeling  and  flagitious  person  the 
butt  of  some  very  stinging  sarcasms  against  the 
vices  and  folly  of  the  governing  classes.  In  the 
end,  it  turned  out  that  he  wasn't  a  pauper,  but  a 
real  gentleman  of  the  highest  respectability,  only 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  225 

he  had  "  something  on  his  mind,"  owing  to  his 
not  having  behaved  well  to  his  deceased  wife,  or 
his  deceased  wife  not  having  behaved  well  to 
him:  I  couldn't  exactly  make  out  which,  but 
either  eventuality  is  feasible.  All  came  right  at 
last.  The  old  gentleman  flung  by  his  basket  of 
rags,  bones,  or  chickweed,  and  appeared  in  irre- 
proachable coat,  flapped  waistcoat,  and  small- 
clothes. The  good  people  were  all  made  happy, 
and  the  bad  people  transported.  Yice  was  tram- 
pled beneath  the  iron  heel  of  the  high-low  of 
Yirtue ;  and  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity,  came, 
like  the  Hebrew  children,  unharmed  from  the 
fiery  furnace,  and  were  triumphant. 

To  have  witnessed  such  a  spectacle  could  not 
perhaps  have  done  anybody's  aesthetic  and  elas- 
tic taste  much  good ;  but  I  am  an  antediluvian 
sprat  if  it  could  have  done  anybody's  morals  any 
harm. 

Stop,  there  was  a  kind  of  ante-climax,  an  in- 
tercalary tableaux,  the  apotheosis  of  somebody — 
the  widow,  I  think — in  which,  after  the  famous 
model  represented  at  the  Princess's  in  "  Faust  and 
Marguerite,"  under  Mr.  Charles  Kean's  manage- 
ment, an  emancipated  spirit  was  seen  ascending 
to  realms  of  bliss,  encircled  by  flying  Cupids 
and  flying  coryphees,  all  brilliantly  illumined  by 
the  electric  light.  This  tableau,  which,  viewed 
spectacularly,  was  exceedingly  effective,  was 
10* 


2SJ6  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  ;   OR, 

greeted,  I  need  not  say,  with  the  most  vehement 
applause  from  the  audience. 

But  the  Ghost ;  the  Ghost  was  the  thing  des- 
tined to  make  us  all  open  our  eyes  in  blank 
amazement,  and  to  sear,  as  with  a  red-hot 
iron,  the  conscience  of  the  guilty  baronet.  He 
had  retired  to  his  study  with  two  pair  of  wax- 
candles,  an  oaken  escritoire,  and  a  couple  of 
tables  and  high-backed  chairs,  to  meditate  and 
mature  fresh  deeds  of  yillany.  Conscience  smote 
him ;  but  he  defied  her.  Then  Conscience  came 
up  again  in  the  guise  of  a  Ghost,  and  again  and 
again,  Ghost  after  Ghost ;  and  the  baronet  yelped 
with  terror.  Conscience  had  him  on  the  hip. 
Conscience  made  his  spinal  marrow  assume  the 
consistency  of  vanilla  ice.  Conscience  brought 
out  the  cold  drops  on  his  hitherto  brazen  and 
unblushing  brow. 

I  am  not  bound  to  register  what  my  conscience 
said,  or  to  speculate  upon  what  other  people's 
consciences  said  to  them,  on  the  occasion ;  but  I 
avow  that,  although  I  knew  the  whole  thing  to 
be  a  clever  optical  delusion,  devised,  or  patented, 
or  registered  by  Mr.  Dircks,  C.E.,  and  Professor 
Pepper,  I  shook  all  over,  and  my  feet  felt  gelid  in 
my  anklejacks.  There  was  Death  with  his  dart — 
Death  in  the  guise  of  a  grisly  skeleton.  I  didn't 
mind  him  much,  for  his  anatomical  development 
did  not  appear  to  me  to  be  quite  accurate,  and 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  227 

he  looked  a  little  too  much  like  a  King  of  Terrors 
on  pasteboard.  Still  the  suddenness  of  his  appear- 
ance, and  the  more  wonderful  instantaneousness 
of  his  disparition,  made  my  heart  tumble  abnor- 
mally on  its  axis. 

But  when  the  Ghost  of  the  widow  came  up, 
lurid  and  menacing,  seemingly  palpable  and  tan- 
gible, yet  wholly  unsubstantial — when  she  pointed 
to  the  baronet  and  reproached  him  with  his  sins, 
and  cried,  "Ha!  ha!" — and  when,  like  a  flash 
of  summer  lightning,  she  disappeared — I  too, 
knowing  always  this  to  be  a  clever  optical  delu- 
sion, shook  more  than  ever  in  my  shoes,  and  felt 
unwonted  moisture  on  my  forehead. 

This  was  the  Ghost  I  saw  at  Hoxton.  This  is 
the  Ghost,  I  presume,  that  all  London  has  gone 
wild  about  since  its  first  appearance  at  the  Poly- 
technic— the  Ghost  that  is  now  walking  at  the 
Adelphi,  and  that  is  speedily  to  harrow  up  the 
souls  of  the  Parisians. 

As  I  finish  my  Breakfast  in  Bed  this  morning, 
the  Hoxton  Ghost  rises  up  before  me,  vivid  and 
sparkling  as  ever,  and  I  laugh  at  the  clumsy 
trickery  of  the  Pilules  die  Didble  I  saw  last 
night  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin.  "The  Devil  is 
an  ass,"  quoth  rare  Ben  Jonson ;  and  surely  the 
P.  S.  M.  diablerie  was  of  the  most  asinine  descrip- 
tion. The  Ghost,  after  all,  is  the  thing.  Vive  le 
revetumt !    But  there  is  one  thing  which  contin- 


BREAKFAST   IK   BED;    OE, 

ues  to  puzzle  me  desperately.  How  on  earth,  or 
under  the  earth,  or  over  the  earth,  will  MM. 
Lambert  Thiboust  and  Hostein  contrive,  with 
anything  like  that  common  reason  which  is  said 
to  be  existent  even  in  the  roasting  of  eggs,  to  in- 
troduce the  Polytechnico-Britannia  Ghost  into 
Le  Secret  de  Miss  Aurore  f 


PHILOSOPHY  BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.         229 


ON  THE  DISCOYEKY  IN  ONE'S  WAIST- 
COAT-POCKET OF  SOME  BONES 
OF  UNUSUAL  CHAKACTEE. 

Bones,  forsooth,  and  in  one's  waistcoat-pocket 
too !  What  next  ?  the  outraged  reader  will  pro- 
bably desire  to  know.  But  this  is  a  plain,  un- 
yarnished  statement ;  and  the  fact  is  as  I  set  it 
down.  Bones  of  an  unusual  character  were  dis- 
covered, while  I  was  Breakfasting  in  Bed  on  the 
2d  of  July,  1863,  in  a  certain  waistcoat -pocket, 
and  the  waistcoat  to  which  that  pocket  "belonged 
was  mine. 

Granted  that  such  an  article  of  male  habili- 
ment is  not  precisely  the  place  where,  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances,  you  would  look  for  osseous 
fragments.  The  study  of  comparative  anatomy 
seldom  leads  a  man  so  far  as  to  induce  him  to 
convert  his  pockets  into  depositories  for  bones. 
Besides,  I  am  neither  Professor  Owen  nor  a  me- 
dical student.  You  can  keep  a  skeleton  in  your 
closet ;  many  persons  nurture  a  serpent  in  their 
bosoms  ;  and  more  than  one  member  of  my  ac- 
quaintance habitually  wears  a  bee  in  his  bonnet; 


230  BREAKFAST   IN   BED;    OR, 

but,  for  all  this,  it  certainly  seems  wanting  in 
congruity  to  turn  your  vest  into  a  Golgotha. 
Whence  and  why  these  organic  remains  in  the 
locality  above  mentioned? 

It  is  nevertheless  undeniable  that  men  do  carry 
very  strange  and  surprising  things  about  with 
them.  "  The  Mysteries  of  Men's  Pockets  "  would 
furnish  materials  for  a  book  fraught  with  direful 
interest.  There  are  secrets  hidden  in  the  calico- 
lined  recesses  of  broadcloth  and  shrunken  tweed 
that  would  make  you  shudder  if  revealed.  Yon- 
der rosy-cheeked  man,  with  the  simple-minded 
and  unsophisticated  countenance,  who  seems  so 
pleasurably  intent  on  a  portrait  of  the  Princess 
Alexandra  in  a  newsvender's  window — what  do 
you  think  his  pockets  contain?  Nothing  less 
than  two  pairs  of  handcuffs,  a  revolver,  a  trunch- 
eon with  a  brass  crown  at  the  top,  and  a  war- 
rant to  take  you  up,  my  felonious  friend.  He  is 
Inspector  "Weasel  of  the  Detective  Force  ;  and, 
absorbed  by  the  royal  portrait  as  he  appears  to 
be,  his  actual  eyes  are  fixed  on  William  Sykes, 
Esquire,  late  of  Bermuda,  then  of  Portland,  and 
now  of  Whitechapel,  out  of  any  trade  or  occupa- 
tion save  burglary,  who  is  lurking  over  the  way, 
and  upon  whom  he  will,  within  the  twinkling  of 
a  truncheon,  incontinently  pounce.  And  W.  S., 
Esq.,  himself  ?  Who  but  the  Inspector,  to  see 
William  arrayed  as  a  peaceable  journeyman-car- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.         231 

penter,  or  innocuous  bricklayer's  laborer,  or  in- 
offensive railway-porter,  would  imagine  that, 
lying  perdu  in  William's  pocket  of  velveteen  or 
fustian,  there  were  such  unconsidered  trifles  as  a 
jemmy  or  two  and  a  couple  of  centrebits,  a  bunch 
of  skeleton-keys,  a  crape-mask,  a  knuckle-duster, 
and  three  inches  and  a  half  of  wax-candle — the 
entire  apparatus  of  William's  little  housebreak- 
ing business,  in  fact  ? 

Behold  that  down-looking  individual,  who  in 
apparel  reminds  you  equally  of  a  charity  school- 
master and  a  retired  tradesman  in  a  Dissenting 
neighborhood.  Ask  him  what  he  has  got  in  his 
pocket.  A  tract  ?  a  hymn-book  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it. 
A  coil  of  new  rope;  and  you  will  swing  in  it, 
by  bloodthirsty  friend,  as  sure  as  the  down- 
looking  gentleman's  name  is  Calcraft,  next  Mon- 
day morning.  If  we  changed  the  venue  from 
pockets  to  parcels,  revelations  as  astounding 
could  be  made. 

Is  it  possible  ever  to  forget  that  horribly  face- 
tious story  of  Mr.  Greenacre,  lightly  tripping  out 
of  the  omnibus  with  a  bundle  of  something  in  a 
blue  bag  under  his  arm,  and  remarking,  with  an 
air  of  banter  to  the  conductor  as  he  handed  him 
his  fare,,  that  he  really  thought  he  ought  to  have 
paid  for  two?  The  simple  cad  did  not  comprehend 
his  meaning  then ;  but  the  gist  of  Mr.  Greenacre's 
joke  was  apparent  when  it  afterwards  came  out 


232  BREAKFAST  IK  BED  J   OK, 

that  the  blue  bag  contained  the  head  of  Hannah 
Brown. 

It  was  on  a  smooth  highway  once,  in  mid- 
spring  and  in  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  pleasant 
county  of  Kent,  that,  with  Eugenius  and  Orlando, 
I  careered  in  an  open  fly.  The  sun  shone  ;  the 
birds  sang  ;  the  corn  waved.  "We  had  lunched 
well,  and  proposed  to  dine  even  better.  We 
laughed,  and  chanted  carols  of  revelry.  All  at 
once  came  a  rattling  along  the  road,  and  a  chaise- 
cart,  drawn  by  a  plump  horse,  passed  us.  There 
were  two  policemen  in  the  cart,  two  merry  mu- 
nicipals, who  now  giggled,  and  now  guffawed,  as 
they  retailed,  perchance,  the  scandal  of  the  sta- 
tion, or  girded  at  the  inspector.  One  smoked  a 
short  pipe  ;  the  other,  who  held  the  reins,  chew- 
ed-the  cud  of  sweet  fancies  in  the  shape  of  a 
flower.  "Why  should  not  policemen  enjoy  them- 
selves as  well  as  other  people?  There  jogged 
between  them,  in  the  cart,  a  certain  jar  of  stone- 
ware, with  a  piece  of  leather  tied  over  the  top  ; 
and,  striking  up  an  impromptu  acquaintance  with 
the  official  men,  as  by  the  freemasonry  of  the 
road  we  were  warranted  in  doing,  we  joked  them 
on  what  the  jar  might  contain,  playfully  suggest- 
ing pickles,  beer,  or  Old  Tom,  and  challenging 
them  to  open  and  allow  us  to  partake  of  its  con- 
tents. "  I  don't  think  you'd  like  it,  master,"  the 
policeman    who   wasn't   driving,  remarked,  re- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  233 

moving  the  short  pipe  from  his  lips.  "  What's 
in  that  jar  ain't  nice,  I  fancy.  Itfs  just  the 
stomach  of  the  old  gentleman  as  was  pisoned  at 
Maidstone ?,  and  we're  talcin7  it  to  he  hanalyzedP 
That  day  we  laughed  no  more. 

The  mention  of  this  alarming  occurrence  does 
not,  perhaps,  tend  to  the  elucidation  of  the  ques- 
tion of  domestic  paleontology  which  forms  the 
subject-matter  of  this  Paper.  You  have  my  ad- 
mission that  bones — strange  bones — were  found 
in  my  waistcoat-pocket  (a  dress- waistcoat,  too, 
moire  antiaue) ;  but  how  came  those  bones,  or 
any  bones  at  all,  there,  where  no#bones  should 
be  ?  In  this  wise,  candor  compels  me  to  relate. 
I  presume  that  a  family-man — a  person,  in  short, 
who  is  habitually  under  the  disciplinary  control 
and  supervision  of  other  persons  who  torment 
him  for  his  good,  and  make  his  life  miserable  in 
order  that  he  may  be  happier  afterwards — need 
experience  no  feeling  of  humiliation  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  wearing-apparel  he  has  cast 
off  is,  as  a  rule,  searched  before  he  breakfasts  the 
next  morning.  If  he  do  feel  humiliated,  it 
doesn't  much  matter.  He  will  be  searched  all 
the  same.  You  think,  when  you  have  laid  your 
watch,  purse,  pocket-book,  pencil-case,  latch-key, 
and  so  forth  on  your  dressing-table  at  night,  that 
you  have  made  a  clean  sweep  of  your  pockets. 
"  Get  all  that  nonsense  out  of  your  head,"  as 


234:  BREAKFAST   IN  BED  ;    OE, 

C.  J.  Fox  said  to  Napoleon.  The  domestic 
inquisition  will  be  at  work  ;  the  domestic  search- 
warrant  will  be  issued  ;  you  are  sure  to  have  for- 
gotten something  in  your  pockets,  and  that  some- 
thing is  sure  to  be  discovered  before  you  rise 
again.  A  due  consciousness  of  this  inevitability 
has  led  some  astute  sages  to  select  secret  hiding- 
places  in  their  garments  calculated  to  elude  the 
strictest  search.  To  have  secret  drawers  made  in 
the  heels  of  your  boots,  and  in  the  event  of  their 
being  discovered,  to  declare  they  are  spur-boxes, 
may  be,  perhaps,  going  a  little  too  far ;  and 
occult  pockets  in  the  lining  of  the  back  of  your 
ooat,  are  apt,  if  you  use  them  as  receptacles  for 
personal  effects,  to  give  you  the  appearance  of 
being  humpbacked;  but  the  inside  of  an  umbrella 
is  not  a  bad  place  for  the  concealment  of  trifles 
you  don't  wish  discovered — say,  the  smoking-cap 
you  purchased  at  Mrs.  Pelham  Yillars'  stall  at 
the  fancy  fair  in  aid  of  the  funds  for  the  Repent- 
ant "Ragamuffins'  Turkish  Baths  Association.  Let 
your  umbrella  be  an  ugly  one,  so  that  the  search- 
ing officers  of  your  household  may  not  feel 
inclined  to  borrow  it. 

An  umbrella,  however,  is  easily  lost ;  and  the 
lining  of  your  hat  may  be,  after  all,  the  very  best 
hiding-place  for  things  you  are  desirous  of  keep- 
ing perdu,  such  as  your  proofs  of  Rafaelle's 
Madonnas,  your  certificate  as  a  member  of  the 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  235 

Anti-Tobacco  Association,  your  temperance 
nfredal,  and  the  private  addresses  of  the  widows 
and  orphans  in  £Tew  Zealand  and  the  Yalleys  of 
Uganda,  to  whom  you  have  (in  the  charity  and 
philanthrophy  of  your  heart)  allocated  small 
annual  pensions.  Why  not  lock  these  articles 
up  ?  you  may  ask.  Bah  !  puerility  !  overween- 
ing fatuity  !  As  if  other  people  were  not  always 
in  the  possession  of  means  for  opening  your 
drawers  and  strong-boxes  \ 

Women  have  all  acquired,  intuitively,  an 
infallible  "  Open  Sesame."  It  was  Eve,  wander- 
ing in  Eden  with  nothing  to  do,  save  mischief, 
who  first  found  the  weasel  asleep,  and  availed 
herself  of  the  opportunity  to  shave  off  his  eye- 
brows. O  Mr.  Joseph  Charles  Parkinson,  author 
of  "  Under  Government ;"  O  communicative 
writer  of  "  The  Master  Key  to  Public  Offices ;" 
O  soul-harrowing  editor  of  the  "  ISTote-Book  of  a 
Private  Detective  " — you  don't  know  what  goes 
on  under  crinoline  government,  or  what  master 
keys  to  private  offices  our  domestic  detectives 
keep  hanging  to  the  prettiest  of  chatelaines. 
You  never  imagine  that  dear,  smiling  Mrs.  Can- 
dor was  born  Mademoiselle  Fouche ;  and  that 
Mrs.  Lambkin's  first  husbandwas-  Captain Yarde, 
from  Scotland. 

It  is  better  that  we  should  remain  in  ignorance 
of  the  whole  extent  of  espionage  that  is  exercised 


236  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OK, 

over  us.  If  everybody  knew  what  other  people 
knew  about  them,  this  world  would  be  as  intoler- 
able as  the  tigers'  den  at  the  Zoological  Gardens 
in  hot  weather. 

I  have  said  enough,  however,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
to  set  all  the  Mrs.  Candors  and  Mrs.  Lambkins, 
who  have  anything  to  learn  in  their  profession, 
busy  searching  Mr.  C.'s  umbrella  and  the  lining 
of  Mr.  L.'s  hat.  Pending  their  anticipated  dis- 
coveries, I  will  revert  to  the  charnel-house  topic. 
It  was  fortunate  for  me,  on  the  morning  when 
those  bones  came  out,  that  nothing  of  a  more 
incriminatory  nature  had  been  found  upon  me. 
It  is  not  the  season  for  masquerades  ;  but  I  have 
known  dreadful  scenes  to  arise  through  the  turn- 
ing up  of  a  crumpled  bit  of  pasteboard  covered 
with  black  silk,  with  two  eyeholes  and  a  fringe 
of  sham  lace.  A  pair  of  white  kid-gloves,  too, 
when  you  have  left  home  in  dark  ones,  may  lead 
to  much  that  is  disastrous.  A  theatrical  pass- 
check,  with  "  Magenta  "  or  "  Hippopotamus  " 
printed  on  it,  does  not  look  well ;  and  there  are 
numerous  other  things  a  man  may  bring  home 
in  his  pocket  without  being  aware  of  them — 
circulars  from  the  Church  Missionary  Society ; 
invitations  to  dine  with  the  Gas  and  Gaiter  Club ; 
four  sovereigns  won  at  cards,  when  he  left  home 
with  two  half-crowns  and  a  fourpenny  bit;  tooth- 
picks ;    programmes   of    the   entertainments  at 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  237 

Cremorne  ;  champagne  corks  ;  cribbage-pegs  ; 
strange  latch-keys ;  and  the  like  ;  all  of  which, 
unless  he  have  a  talent  for  diplomatic  explana- 
tion, may  bring  him  into  dire  trouble. 

There  was  nothing  against  me  on  this  particu- 
lar morning  save  the  Bones.  To  diplomatize  I 
deemed  unworthy,  and  at  once  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  You,  lecteur  debonnaire,  shall  be  a 
party  to  the  confession.  I  had  been  to  dine  at 
the  annual  festival  of  the  Acclimatisation  Society 
at  St.  James's  Hall,  Piccadilly ;  I  had  partaken 
in  moderation  of  grenouilles  a  la  poulette,  a  fri- 
cassee of  frogs  in  white  sauce,  which  the  Society 
seem  to  be  seeking  to  acclimatise  in  our  kitchens 
and  on  our  dinner-tables — for  frogs  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  be  exotic  to  our  marshes  and  ponds — 
and  which  are,  I  assure  you,  very  nice  eating  ;  I 
had  picked  a  number  of  frogs'  bones  clean,  and 
I  brought  them  home  as  a  kind  of  spoil  or 
trophy,  to  hang  up,  in  lieu  of  the  dried  scalps  of 
my  foes,  in  the  domestic  wigwam.  That  is  to 
say,  I  meant  to  keep  them  under  a  clockcase, 
where,  completely  desiccated,  carefully  perfumed, 
and  tastefully  gilt  all  over,  I  still  preserve  the 
shell  of  a  crawfish  which  once  decorated  a  vol  au 
vent  a  la  financiered  and  which  I  keep,  not  only 
by  reason  of  its  being  a  charming  miniature 
model  of  a  lobster,  but  because  it  serves  as  a 
memento  of  one  of  the  friskiest  fish-dinners  at 


238  BREAKFAST  IX  BED;   OB, 

Blackwall  at  wliicli  I  ever  had  the  honor  of  being 
an  invited  guest. 

So,  the  murder  is  out ;  and  it  being  difficult 
to  associate  any  very  flagrant  degree  of  moral 
turpitude  with  the  j)OSsession  of  the  tibia  and 
fibula  of  poor  froggee,  peace,  for  an  instant  dis- 
turbed by  the  unwonted  appearance  of  the  Bones, 
was  soon  restored,  and  I  was  permitted  to  expa- 
tiate on  the  peculiarities  of  a  very  strange  but 
very  succulent  dinner. 

The  Acclimatisation  Society  of  Great  Britain 
and  Ireland,  is  composed  of  a  number  of  ener- 
getic and  public-spirited  men,  who  do  not  stick 
at  trifles.  Approach  thee  like  the  rugged  Rus- 
sian bear  or  the  armed  rhinoceros,  and  you  won't 
frighten  a  member  of  the  Acclimatisation  Society. 
He  will  do  his  best  to  acclimatise  the  bear  and 
the  rhinoceros ;  and  if  they  are  good  to  eat,  he 
will  devour  them  d  la  croque  au  set. 

Reader,  I  must  deprecate  any  indignant  feel- 
ings which  may  arise  in  your  breast,  if,  in  the 
course  of  the  next  page  and  a  half  of  this  Article, 
I  make  use  of  a  good  many  wrords  of  dubious 
French  origin.  I  shall  be  compelled  to  quote 
the  bill  of  fare  ;  and  as  Mr.  Donald,  of  St.  James's 
Hall,  keeps  a  French  chef,  of  course  it  wras  but 
natural  for  that  functionary  to  draw  up  his  menu 
in  culinary  French.  The  Acclimatisation  Society 
dinner  was  of  a  duplex  or  rather  a  triplex  nature. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  239 

It  comprised,  first,  the  elements  of  a  first-rate 
French  banquet ;  next,  those  of  a  substantial 
English  repast ;  and  thirdly,  a  variety  of  abnor- 
mal dishes  and  wines  of  cosmopolitan  extraction 
and  exceptional  character,  specially  introduced 
for  the  occasion  by  the  Acclimatisation  Society. 
Thus,  we  had  clear  turtle,  and  Msque  and  pot  age 
d  la  Bedford,  and  then  we  were  to  have  had 
"  white  soup  of  the  Channel  Islands  ;"  made  of 
the  conger  eel — a  creature  so  despised  that  the 
starving  Irish  have  refused  to  add  flavor  and 
nutriment  to  their  potatoes  by  boiling  them  with 
a  salted  steak  of  the  conger ;  and  yet  it  is  ad- 
duced, as  a  curious  illustration  of  national  preju- 
dice, that  while  starving  Paddy  rejects  the  conger, 
large  quantities  of  the  fish  are  boiled  down  into 
stock,  to  be  used  in  the  making  of  turtle-soup  in 
London.  I  hope  there  wasn't  any  conger  eel  in 
my  tortxie  claire. 

I  strive  not  to  give  way  to  prejudice  as  to  what 
I  eat  or  drink,  and  have  swallowed  in  my  time, 
not  a  few  "exceptional"  viands;  but  I  don't  think 
I  could  manage  the  white  soup  of  the  Channel 
Islands.  It  happened  after  all  that  the  conger- 
eel  soup  did  not  make  its  appearance  on  the  din- 
ner-table. A  jar  of  it  had  been  sent  from  Jersey, 
but,  owing  to  the  heat  of  the  weather,  had  turned 
bad  en  route,  and  some potage  a  la  reine  had  been 
substituted,  which  looked  quite  as  nasty  as  the 


24:0  BREAKFAST  IN   BED;   0E, 

"  white  soup  "  is  said  to  be.  I  tried  hard  to  eat 
it,  but  gave  up  the  attempt  at  last  in  despair, 
mingled  with  disgust. 

I  didn't  presume  to  proclaim  my  aversion  to 
the  bilious-looking  mess  aloud;  for  the  majority 
of  the  company  present  were  "  swells "  of  the 
very  heaviest  fashionable  or  scientific  order ;  but 
the  facetious  Mr.  Bernal  Osborne,  behind  whom 
I  had  the  honor  to  sit,  felt  no  such  scruples.  It 
happened  that  the  Duke  of  Newcastle,  who  had 
been  announced  to  take  the  chair,  couldn't  come. 
He  had  been  asked  to  tea  I  believe,  by  royalty, 
at  Kew  ;  and  at  the  fifty-ninth  minute  Mr.  Her- 
man Merivale,  C.  B.,  was  elected  to  the  presi- 
dency. But  Mr.  Osborne  accounted  for  his 
grace's  absence  in  quite  another  manner.  He 
pointed  out  that  the  Duke  had  taken  the  chair  at 
the  Acclimatisation  banquet  in  the  previous  year ; 
that  he  had  been  tempted  to  try  the  potage  of 
conger  eels  ;  that  he  hadn't  quite  recovered  from 
the  effects  thereof ;  and  that  he  had  stayed  away 
from  this  year's  dinner  through  a  wholesome  fear 
of  being  once  more  compelled  to  swallow  a  plate- 
ful of  the  abhorred  white  soup  of  the  Channel 
Islands.  The  audience  roared  with  laughter  at 
this  humorous  hypothesis ;  only  the  fact  of  the 
soup  not  being  of  conger  eel  at  all,  which  after- 
wards oozed  out,  somewhat  detracted  from  the 
force  of  Mr.  Osborne's  sarcasm. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  24:1 

And  yet,  eels  are  savory  things.  Fried,  they 
are  delicious;  spatch-cocked,  they  are  glorious; 
and  stewed — ah  !  no  more  on  that  exciting  topic. 
"When  the  Old  Serpent  appears  in  the  guise  of  a 
stewed  eel,  it  is  impossible  to  resist  him. 

Then,  again,  as  a  soup  there  was  bouillabaisse. 
JS"ow  there  are  a  great  many  would-be  epicures 
who  profess  to  delight  in  this  curious  soache  of 
fish,  spice,  and  garlic,  because  Mr.  Thackeray  has 
written  upon  it  one  of  the  most  beautiful  lyrics 
extant  in  any  language.  When  your  young 
University  man  first  goes  to  Paris,  he  is  sure  to 
inquire  after  "  the  new  street  of  the  little  fields," 
and  his  soul  thirsts  after  a  mess  of  bouillabaisse 
and  the  "  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal."  For 
the  Chambertin,  ga  me  va ;  but  as  regards  the 
bouillabaisse,  I  would  rather  take  something  "  ex- 
ceptional" in  the  way  of  potage  colimagon  or 
tripes  d  la  mode  de  Caen.  It  may  stand  high  in 
the  Provencale  cuisine ;  it  may  be  the  favorite 
fish-stew  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay — imagine  the  ship- 
wrecked mariners : — 

"  There  they  lay 
All  that  day 
(Devouring  bovillabaisse)  in  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  oh  !" 

but  it  is  nevertheless   horribly  nauseous.     The 

culinary  sages  of  the  Acclimatisation  Society  tell 

us  that  "it  is  made  of  various  fishes,  but  its 

11 


242  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  J    OK, 

indispensable  ingredients  are  red  mullet,  toma- 
toes, red  pepper,  red  burgundy,  oil,  and  garlic. 
Soles,  gurnets,  dories,  and  whitings  are  admis- 
sible into  this  dish."  Yes,  and  there  is  another 
item  admissible  :  but  on  which  I  fancy  the  Ac- 
climatisation Society,  were  they  aware  of  it, 
would  scarcely  care  to  dwell. 

At  Marseilles,  where  bouillabaisse  is  made  in 
perfection,  the  cook  always  has  at  his  side  a 
caldron  of  boiling  tallow — tallow,  not  oil,  mind ! 
He  plunges  a  long  rolling-pin  into  this  caldron, 
withdraws  it,  and  holds  it  aloft  till  the  tallow  is 
congealed.  Then  he  gives  it  another  dip,  and 
another  and  another,  until  the  rolling-pin  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  sufficient  thickness  of  solidified 
tallow.  And  then  he  plunges  the  greasy  staff 
into  the  kettle  of  bouillabaisse  and  turns  it  round 
and  round  till  all  the  tallow  is  melted  from  it, 
and  has  become  incorporated  with  the  delightful 
pot-pourri  of  "  red  mullet,  tomatoes,  red  pepper, 
red  burgundy,  oil,  and  garlic."  After  this,  go 
and  eat  your  fill  of  bouillabaisse. 

Against  fish-soups,  however,  I  raise  no  voice. 
Turtle,  terrapin,  oyster,  bisque,  are  all  exquisite. 
The  Italians,  again,  have  their  zuppa  marinana, 
which  is  not  (saving  the  presence  of  the  A.  S.) 
at  all  like  bouillabaisse  ;  and  the  Russians  make 
a  very  appetising  piscine  pottage  (when  you  are 
acclimatised  to  it)  called  batwiaia.    The  stock  of 


PHILOSOPHT   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  243 

this  is  composed  of  Jcva^  or  half-brewed  barley- 
beer  and  oil,  and  into  this  is  put  the  fish  known 
as  the  sterlet  of  the  Volga,  or  the  sassina  of  the 
Gulf  of  Finland,  together  with  bay-leaves,  pepper, 
and  lumps  of  ice,  I  will  match  batwinia  any  clay 
against  bouillabaisse. 

So  much  for  soups.  Now  for  the  fish  proper. 
Salmon  d  la  Duchesse  de  Sutherland,  turbot 
stuffed  d  la  Hollandaise,  do  not  call  for  par- 
ticular remark.  Blanchaille,  I  apprehend,  is 
French  for  whitebait;  and  if  that  fish  exist  in 
France,  or  if  whitebait  be  a  real  fish  at  all,  and 
not  an  artful  combination  of  batter,  pepper,  and 
currants  thrown  in  to  serve  as  eyes,  I  will  bow 
to  Mr.  Donald's  chef.  "  Caller  salmon  "  was  put 
forward  as  "  exceptional,"  the  peculiarity  of  the 
dish  being  that  the  salmon  has  been  boiled  as 
soon  as  possible  after  being  taken  from  the  water, 
so  that  the  fat  has  curded  between  the  flanks. 
I  hope  the  zeal  of  the  A.  S.  won't  lead  them 
to  the  discovery  that  the  adipose  matter  in  salmon 
may  be  curded  even  more  rapidly  by  boiling  the 
fish  alive. 

"We  have  heard  quite  enough  about  crimped 
cod ;  and  after  watching  the  evolutions  of  that 
noble,  blue-black,  armor-plated  man-of-war  in 
the  vivarium  at  the  Zoological  Gardens,  one 
almost  feels  inclined  to  recommend  the  practice 
of  boiling  lobsters  alive  to  the  notice  of  the 


244  BREAKFAST   DT   BED  ;   OR, 

secretary  of  the  Royal  Society  for  the  Prevention 
of  Cruelty  to  Animals.  If  "  the  cardinal  of  the 
seas,"  as  Jules  Janin,  with  amusingly  blundering 
humor,  called  him,  could  only  be  born  red,  what 
an  immensity  of  agony  he  might  save  himself,  to 
be  sure  ! 

"Charr"  was  served  fresh.  It  is  usually 
served  potted,  and  is  a  capital  "  pick  up  "  if  you 
are  breakfasting  in  bed,  and  feel  faint.  It  may 
vie  as  a  restorative  with  dried  cod-sounds. 
Caviar  they  gave  us  not ;  yet  to  relish  this 
delightful  conserve  of  sturgeon  I  think  the 
British  public  stand  sadly  in  need  of  being  ac- 
climatised. 

"We  see  the  neat  little  kegs  of  caviar  in 
Morel's  or  Fortnum  and  Mason's  windows ;  but 
only  enthusiastic  epicures  think  of  buying  them. 
To  acclimatise  yourself  to  caviar,  you  should 
begin  on  a  course  of  Dutch  herrings  washed 
down  by  a  couple  of  tumblers  (taken  lasting)  of 
cod-liver  oil.  After  that,  empty  a  pot  of  black- 
currant jam  into  a  salt-cellar,  and  cram  the 
amalgamated  contents  into  a  sardine-box  half 
full  of  fish.  Stir  well,  and  keep  the  box  in  a 
warm  room  for  a  fortnight.  Then  serve  on 
bread-and-butter,  and  tell  me  how  you  like  it. 
The  mixture  as  before  (with  perhaps  a  little  of 
Warren's  blacking  added)  is  very  like  caviar.  In 
Mahomet's  seventh  heaven  the  houris  always  eat 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  245 

a  pound  and  a  half  of  it  for  breakfast  on  Tues- 
days and  Fridays. 

u  Lncioperca  "  is  the  pike-perch  found  through- 
out Northern  Europe.  "  Although  excellent  for 
the  purposes  of  the  table,"  writes  the  Apicius  of 
the  A.  S.,  its  voracity  is  such  that  its  introduc- 
tion into  this  country  is  not  recommended,  ex- 
cept in  ponds  especially  devoted  to  its  propaga- 
tion." In  these "  special  ponds,  I  suppose,  the  lu- 
ciopcrca  would  eat  one  another,  until  the  sole 
survivor  of  the  tontine  assumed  the  dimensions 
of  a  whale. 

There  were  no  sea-slugs  this  year,  and  there 
was  no  bird' s-n est  soup  :  but  there  was  plenty  of 
sturgeon,  which  reminds  you  of  a  tough  veal- 
cutlet  sent  for  his  misdemeanors  on  board  ship 
and  returned  with  a  fishy  flavor.  1  missed  kan- 
garoo-steamer also,  and  gambo-soup  :  nor,  so  far 
as  I  could  ascertain,  was  there  any  parrot-pie  on 
the  table.  The  entrees^  however,  were  very  rich 
and  varied.  The  supremes  de  volatile  cocks- 
combed  or  truffled,  the  crousiades  of  quails,  the 
cutlets  and  curries  and  Icromeshis  and  sweet- 
breads, I  dismiss  at  once.  They  belong  to  Mr. 
Donald,  not  to  the  Society.  In  the  "  exceptional " 
domain  we  had  pepper-pot,  that  wondrous  West- 
Indian  dish,  that  salmagundi  of  fowl,  beef,  and 
mutton,  peppered  up  to  the  maintruck,  and 
sauced  with  the  cassareep  or  inspissated  juice  of 


246  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OR, 

the  manioc  root ;  the  whole  kept  simmering  and 
seething  in  a  huge  jar  or  pipkin.  I  consumed 
vast  quantities  of  pepper-pot.  Dear  old  mess ! 
I  felt  to  the  manner  born  of  it ;  it  was  my  jpot  au 
feu. 

Shall  an  Irishman  not  loye  his  praties,  a 
Scotchman  his  oatmeal-porridge  ?  I  was  weaned 
on  pepper-pot  and  mangoes.  The  taste  of  the 
easfareep  brought  floating  before  my  mind 
memories  of  the  dead  and  gone  past ;  preserved 
ginger  and  guava  jelly,  yams  and  plantains, 
tamarinds  and  arrowroot,  banyans  and  pig-galls, 
and  grinning  servants  with  black  faces  and  yel- 
low kerchiefs  twisted  round  their  woolly  pates. 
And  yet  I  was  never  in  the  West  Indies  in  my 
life.   " 

Some  "  Pallas  sand-grouse"  proved  very  tooth- 
some. These  are  the  birds  whose  recent  visits 
to  this  country  have  given  the  chatty  correspon- 
dents of  "  The  Field"  so  capital  an  opportunity  for 
displaying  their  acumen,  and  whose  dusky  selves 
are  among  the  chief  attractions  of  those  charming 
Sunday  afternoons  when  the  British  aristocracy 
are  pleased  to  disport  themselves  at  the  Zoo.  I 
didn't  eat  any  of  the  poultry  introduced  with  the 
fantastic  title  of  poulets  d  V emancipation  des 
negres ;  but  I  heard  them  very  well  spoken  of. 
"  The  peculiarity  of  this  fowl,"  I  quote  Apicius, 
or  J.  L.j  Esq.,  "  is,  that  the  skin  and  periosteum 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  247 

are  quite  black,  but  the  flesh  is  perfectly  white." 
Mr.  Tegetmeier,  of  the  Philoperisteron  Society, 
says  that  it  is  the  coq  negre  of  Tammerick,  and 
must  not  be  confounded  with  the  small  silky 
bantam  known  as  the  coq  a  duvet. 

But  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  the  grosses  pieces. 
Haunch  of  venison,  saddle  of  mutton — we  know 
all  about  these ;  but  what  think  you  of  agneau 
chinois  roti  entier,  farci  aux  jpistaches,  servi  ecu 
pilaff  et  couscoussou! — a  Chinese  lamb  roasted 
whole,  stuffed  with  pistachio-nuts  and  served 
with  couscoussou,  which  last  is  a  preparation  of 
wheat  used  among  the  Moors,  Algerines,  and 
other  natives  of  the  North- African  littoral,  in 
place  of  rice.  I  have  heard  that  the  Moorish 
young  ladies  are  fattened  for  the  matrimonial 
market  by  a  diet  ad  libitum  of  this  strengthening 
compound. 

The  couscoussou  is  made  into  balls  and  stuffed 
into  the  mouth  of  the  marriageable  young  lady, 
till  she  grows  as  tired  of  balls  as  a  belle  who  has 
been  through  three  seasons  of  quadrilles  and 
polkas  without  getting  a  single  offer.  If  the 
damsel  won't  eat  any  more  couscoussou,  they 
administer  the  bastinado  till  she  feels  hungry 
again.     They  do  such  odd  things  in  Barbary ! 

Well,  how  about  the  education  of  goose-livers 
with  a  view  to  pate  de  foie  gras  f  How  about 
stuffing  turkeys?    and  don't  we  send  our  sons 


248  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  ;   OR, 

to  a  crammer  when  we  are  anxious  that  they 
should  obtain  a  Government  clerkship  or  a  direct 
commission  ? 

"In  the  lamb  roasted  whole,"  says  Apicius 
(or  J.  L.,  Esq.),  "we  have  one  of  the  earliest 
dishes  on  record  in  the  history  of  cookery. 
Stuffed  with  pistachio-nuts  and  served  with 
pilaff,  it  at  the  same  time  illustrates  the  anti- 
quity of  the  art,  and  gives  an  example  of  the 
food  upon  which  millions  of  our  fellow-creatures 
are  sustained.  The  lamb  proves  the  excellent 
flavor  of  the  Ong-Ti  breed  of  Chinese  sheep,  the 
introduction  of  which  is  one  of  the  special  objects 
of  this  society. 

Thus  far  Apicius ;  but  I  take  the  liberty  of 
stating  that  I  should  prefer  Ong-Ti  mutton  to 
Ong-Ti  lamb.  The  Chinese  lamb  was  decidedly 
flabby,  and,  as  is  usually  the  case  when  an  animal 
is  cooked  entire,  the  fire  had  burnt  up  one  part 
and  left  the  others  nearly  raw.  The  carver  did 
not  love  or  fear  me  sufficiently  to  give  me  a 
liberal  allowance  of  pistachio,  and  the  pilaff  stood 
in  need  of  a  little  ghee  or  fluid  butter  (rancid,  if 
you  please)  being  poured  over  it.  However,  it 
was  a  noble  experiment,  and  shows  that  the 
society  are  disposed  to  adopt  no  half-measures. 

"  Fawn  of  fallow  deer,"  "  ribs  of  beef  between 
buffalo  and  Kerry  cow  " — these  were  pieces  de 
resistance  whose  presence  only  I  am  enabled  to 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  249 

record.  "  Their  names,"  says  J.  L.  Apicius,  Esq., 
pithily,  "explain  their  intention."  There  was  a 
red-deer  ham,  and  one  of  bear — very  succulent ; 
but  why  couldn't  the  society  have  made  an 
arrangement  with  an  enterprising  hair-dresser, 
and  caused  "  another  fine  bear"  to  be  slaughtered, 
in  order  that  the  company  might  taste  a  bear- 
steak  and  a  tender  sirloin?  I  ate  bear  once  at 
a  Kussian  dinner-party  (where  it  was  introduced, 
I  admit,  as  a  curiosity,  and  not  as  an  ordinary 
dish),  and  a  half-a-dozen  mouthfuls  made  me  sick 
for  a  fortnight  afterwards.  The  meat  was  tough, 
glutinous,  and  had,  besides,  a  dreadful,  half- 
aromatic,  half-putrescent  flavor,  as  though  it  had 
first  been  rubbed  with  asafcetida  and  then  hung 
up  for  a  month  in  Mr.  Eimmel's  shop. 

Bison  tongues,  Chinese  yam,  Bayonne  ham,  I 
dismiss ;  but  was  disappointed  at  not  seeing  on  the 
table  any  of  the  famous  donkey-flesh  sausages  of 
Bologna.  A  roast  monkey,  too  (most  delicious 
eating  when  stuffed  with  chestnuts),  was  a  desi- 
deratum ;  and  I  asked  in  vain  for  rat.  Snails, 
too,  were  absent;  but  en  revwnche  I  took  my  fill 
of  frogs. 

When  yon  were  a  little  boy  at  school,  you 
probably  ate  a  good  many  frogs.  Our  practice 
was,  when  we  had  caught  them,  to  pinch  our 
nostrils  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand,  and  holding 
the  dapper  little  froggee  lightly  with  the  other, 
11* 


250  BREAKFAST  IN   BED;   OR, 

to  allow  him  to  jump  down  our  throats.  There 
was  a  tradition  among  us  that  to  swallow  live 
frogs  (for  the  process  could  not  be  called  eating) 
made  a  boy  strong  and  valorous,  and  almost  un- 
sentient  to  the  cuts  of  the  cane.  As  we  advanced 
in  years  we  took  a  distaste  for  frogs.  .  We  were 
patriots.  We  grew  to  hate  frogs  because  we 
heard  that  the  French  liked  them  and  that  they 
formed  a  principal  item  in  the  diet  of  that  viva- 
cious and  ingenious  people.  The  truth  is,  how- 
ever, that  frogs  are  regarded  in  France  as  a  most 
luxurious  delicacy,  and  are  correspondingly  ex- 
pensive. The  Marche  St.  Honore  is  the  most 
usual  place  for  their  vendition  ;  and  as  only  the 
hind-legs  are  eaten  by  the  Parisians,  and  the 
price  is  seldom  under  fifteen  francs  a  dozen,  a 
dish  of  frogs  is  only  seen  at  the  table  of  a  million- 
aire. Of  their  tenderness,  succulence,  and  deli- 
cacy of  flavor,  there  can  be  no  question. 

The  gr'enouilles  a  la  pouletie  at  the  Acclima- 
tisation dinner  were  superb.  The  white  sauce 
left  nothing  to  be  desired.  I  ate  as  much  frog  as 
ever  I  could  get ;  and,  as  related  above,  I  brought 
the  bones  home  in  my  waistcoat-pocket  as  a 
trophy  of  victory  over  a  stupid  and  irrational  pre- 
judice. We  eat  the  dirty  pig,  the  dirtier  duck, 
and  yet  we  turn  up  our  noses  at  the  clean-living, 
and  clean-feeding  fro^.  Had  not  the  Acclima- 
tisation  Society  a  hundred  other  claims  to  public 


PHILOSOPHY    BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  251 

support,  our  gratitude  would  be  due  to  them  for 
thus  bravely  teaching  Englishmen  to  eat  frogs. 

This  Homeric,  this  Apician,  this  Vitellian,  this 
Gargantuan  banquet — the  like  of  which  I  never 
saw  before,  but  fondly  hope  to  see  again — was 
washed  down  by  copious  streams  of  Sherry,  Hock, 
Meursault  (very  good),  Eed  Burgundy,  Cham- 
pagne, and  Moselle. 

Among  exceptional  wines  we  had  a  whole  host 
of  Greek  ones.  Santorin  we  quaffed,  and  Thera, 
and  St.  Elie,  and  Corinth,  and  Mount  Hymettus, 
Yi  Santo,  Cyprus,  and  Lacrima  Cristi;  while 
from  the  Magyar  vineyards  came  Muscat,  Badas- 
conyer,  Dioszeger  Bakatar,  Hock,  Ruszte,  Szama- 
rodny,  Adlerberger  Ofner,  and  Tokay.  Among 
the  Greeks,  my  humble  verdict  is  recorded  in 
favor  of  St.  Elie.  The  Hungarian  are  stout 
wines,  of  a  swashbuckling  flavor;  but  a  man 
needs  a  strong  head  to  drink  pottle  deep  of  them. 

Such  was  the  dinner  to  which  I  came  a  little 
late,  and  whence  I  brought  away  the  Bones. 
Tarde  venientibus^  ossa.  I  laughed  as  well  as  I 
could  for  eating  and  drinking  strange  things  all 
the  evening. 

The  room  was  very  hot,  and  crammed  besides 
with  nearly  all  the  notabilities  of  the  day ;  but 
the  feast  was  so  rich  and  so  rare  that  we  should 
have  cheerfully  partaken  of  it  even  in  a  Turkish 
bath.  There  were  but  few  drawbacks  to  the  en- 
tertainment. 


252  BREAKFAST  IN   BED  ;   02, 

The  chairman,  it  is  true,  talked  Colonial  Office 
and  "Quarterly  Review"  in  a  torrent  of  fluent 
platitudes,  till  I  ran  my  eye  down  the  bill  of  fare 
to  see  if  red  tape  au  naturel  wasn't  included  in 
the  removes  ;  but  we  were  not  there  for  the  pur- 
pose of  listening  to  speechifying. 

The  "exceptional"  dishes  had  deprived  the 
waiters  of  the  few  wits  conferred  on  them  by  na- 
ture ;  and  one  or  two  of  their  body  appeared  to 
have  been  partaking  surreptitiously  of  white  soup 
of  the  Channel  Islands  Until  the  decomposed  con- 
ger eel  had  got  into  their  heads.  The  ostrich 
eggs,  again,  were  not  forthcoming,  to  the  bitter 
disappointment  of  Mr.  Bernal  Osborne;  and 
there  was  no  horse.  Almost  everything  else, 
however,  in  the  way  of  edible  or  potable  rarity 
was  to  be  found  on  the  table ;  and  I  believe  that, 
had  those  latest  lions  of  London,  the  Maori  chiefs, 
been  among  the  guests,  the  Council  of  the  So- 
ciety would  have  revolved,  at  least,  the  expe- 
diency of  serving  up  a  cold  boiled  missionary, 
with  a  stewed  baby  and  a  baked  young  woman 
to  follow,  as  a  delicate  attention  to  the  distin- 
guished New  Zealanders. 

They  were  not  there,  however;  nor,  unfortu 
nately,  was  another  gentleman,  whose  absence, 
was  most  sincerely  to  be  deplored,  not  only  for 
our  sakes,  but  for  his  own. 

The  joint  secretaries  to  the  Acclimatisation 
Society  are  Messrs.   Frank  Buckknd,  the  dis 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  253 

languished  naturalist  and  promoter  of  piscicul- 
ture, and  James  Lowe,  who  in  a  gastronomi- 
cal  tournament  would  cheerfully  give  the  ghost 
of  Brillat-Savarin  twenty,  and  with  his  arms 
tied  behind  his  back,  defeat  Dr.  Kitchener, 
Prince  Cambaceres,  and  Mr.  Hayward.  At  the 
last  moment  Mr.  Lowe  was  attacked  by  sud- 
den illness,  and  his  attendance  at  the  banquet 
was  compulsorily  foregone.  It  was  a  heavy 
blow  for  everybody,  including  Mr.  Lowe.  But 
such  is  life. 


254: 


ON  A  YOUNG  LADY  IN  A  BALCONY. 

A  distinguished  English  writer  has  been  occu- 
pied, I  am  informed,  for  some  years  in  the  com- 
position of  a  book  with  the  seductive  title  of  the 
"  Footsteps  of  Luther."  My  acquaintance  with 
contemporary  literature  is  of  so  limited  a  nature, 
and  I  know  so  little  of  what  is  .^oin^  on  in  the 
great  world,  that  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  book 
I  speak  of  may  have  been  completed,  published, 
and  reviewed  these  six  months  past,  and  that  its 
gifted  author  has  been  long  since  crowned  with 
laurel  or  overwhelmed  with  abuse :  the  terms  be- 
ing, to  many  intents  and  purposes,  synonymous. 
If  this  be  indeed  the  case,  I  am  sure  I  beg  the 
author's  pardon  very  humbly.  I  know  that  he 
went  to  Germany  to  Write  the  book,  and  took  a 
camera  and  a  quantity  of  collodion  with  him  to 
photograph  the  footprints  of  the  Great  Keformer 
as  he  wandered ;  but  here  my  positive  informa- 
tion ceases. 

My  only  object  in  alluding  to  the  u  Footsteps 
of  Luther  "  was  to  point  out  that,  good  as  that 
title  was,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  knew  of  a  better. 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  255 

In  Protestant  England,  of  course,  every  tittle  of 
information  having  even  the  remotest  connection 
with  mighty  Doctor  Martin  is  interesting,  and, 
after  a  kind,  sacred ;  but  at  Geneva,  it  may  be, 
the  Sire  Jean  Chauvin,  otherwise  Calvin,  is  first 
favorite  in  the  Keforming  heart ;  and  if  we  go 
southwards,  and  across  certain  mountains,  we 
shall  find  many  millions  of  religionists  who  wick- 
edly maintain  that,  if  Martin  Luther  could  have 
been  made,  by  persuasion  of  the  secular  arm,  to 
dance  upon  nothing,  such  aerial  footsteps  would 
have  been  the  gratefullest  to  the  Church  at  large. 
But  here  is  a  book  whose  title,  were  it  faithfully 
and  skilfully  borne  out  by  its  matter,  would 
be  sure  to  please  all,  and  could  offend  none. 
"What  do  you  think  of  "The  Footsteps  in  Italy  of 
William  Shakespeare  ?"  Can  you  imagine  a 
tome  more  delightful  ?  Once,  when  I  was  young 
and  hale,  and  my  heart  fat  as  butter  with  con- 
ceit, 1  thought  of  sitting  down  to  write  such  a 
book  myself.  It  was  years  and  years  ago — be- 
fore I  had  been  set  face  to  face  with  my  own 
ignorance,  and,  glancing  in  the  glass  of  expe- 
rience, had  found  how  very  long  my  ears  were. 
I  remember  that  I  propounded  my  design  in  the 
boxes  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin  Theatre  in  Paris 
(where  they  were  playing  Alexandre  Dumas's 
"Oresiie")  to  a  great  English  man  of  letters. 
The  illustrious  personage  saw  my  drift  at  once, 


256  BKEAEFAST   IN   BED;   OB, 

and  deigned  to  say  to  me,  "  I  envy  you  your  sub- 
ject." 11  Va  hien  dit,  he  who  never  envied  mor- 
tal man,  .but  ever  strove  to  help  and  to  encourage 
the  weakest  and  the  dullest,  and  to  give  frank 
praise  to  his  few  compeers.  Well,  I  never  grap- 
pled with  the  subject  that  he  professed  to  envy 
me.  I  did  not  forget,  I  simply  neglected  it.  I 
have  been  haunted  by  this  abandoned  one  many 
a  time.  Here  it  is  still,  an  embryo  crying  for 
maturity;  a  blossom  that,  were  I  worthy,  would 
have  given  place,  ere  now,  to  ripe  and  luscious 
fruit.  However,  it  is  now  too  late ;  so,  to  pre- 
serve my  bantling  from  atrophy  (here  is  a  fine 
confusion  of  metaphors  at  your  service  !)  I  desert 
it  on  a  doorstep.  With  averted  face,  and  tearful 
eye,  and  remorseful  heart,  I  place  it  in  the  turn- 
ing-cradle. May  some  good  Sister  of  Charity  re- 
ceive, to  cherish  it ;  and  may  it  find  better  for- 
tune in  the  Foundling  Hospital  for  Wit  than  in 
my  brains ! 

Only  last  night  (I  remember  now,  as  I  Break- 
fast for  the  last  time  in  Bed),  sitting  in  the  stalls 
of  the  Princess's  Theatre,  and  witnessing  the  tra- 
gedy of  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  the  image  of  my 
abortive  book  came  across  me,  and  I  longed  to 
find  some  man  or  woman  of  wit  and  parts  who 
would  turn  my  vision  into  reality.  For  I  should 
be  loth  to  see  the  task  undertaken  by  one  of  the 
common  herd  of  scribblers.    Naturally,  now  that 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  257 

the  notion  is  common  property,  every  botcher  has 
a  right  to  try  his  'prentice  hand  upon  it.  Hircius 
probably  will  swear  that  he  thought  ten  years  ago 
of  following  Shakespeare  tip  and  down  Italy ;  and 
Spungius  may  endeavor  to  raise  money  on  ac- 
count from  the  booksellers  on  the  security  of  the 
idea.  But  to  do  the  thing  thoroughly,  a  host  of 
rare  qualities  would  be  needed.  M.  cl'Alembert 
once  dotted  down  a  few  of  the  acquitments  which, 
in  his  opinion  (and  D'Alembert  knew  a  thing  or 
two),  were  requisite  to  a  writer  who  aspired  to  be 
a  Biblical  critic.  The  dottings-d  :>wn  filled  half 
a  dozen  closely-printed  pages ;  the  which  I  re- 
spectfully commend  (together  with  Yoltaire's 
"Defense  de  mon  Oncle,"  and  Bayle's  second 
"Life  of  David")  to  the  attention  of  the  Eight 
Reverend  Father  in  Mumbo  Jumbo,  Dr.  Colenso. 
He  will  find  that  there  were  some  strong  men 
before  Agamemnon,  and  some  hard  nuts,  which 
stronger  men  than  he  essayed  to  crack  before  the 
demolition  of  the  authenticity  of  the  Pentateuch 
became  as  fashionable  an  amusement  as  rabbins: 
one's  nose  against  Zadkiel's  crystal  ball,  or  going 
to  see  Blondin  on  the  high  rope. 

He  who  would  write  the  "  Footsteps  in  Italy 
of  William  Shakespeare"  (I  thought  in  my 
stall,  should  be,  first,  a  copious  and  profound 
Shakesperian  scholar,  and  an  acute  Shake- 
sperian  critic.     He  should  know  the  plays  by 


258  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OK, 

heart ;  have  the  poems  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  ; 
and  harbor  some  tangible  hypothesis  on  the  son- 
nets. He  should  be  well  up  in  his  Hazlitt,  his 
Schlegel,  his  Maginis,  his  Coleridge,  his  Dyce,  his 
Staunton,  and  his  Halliwell.  All  that  Malone 
and  Steevens  have  written  should  be  familiar  to 
him.  Then  he  should  be  a  linguist,  who  had 
read  through  Guicciardini  without  being  daunted 
at,  the  War  of  Pisa,  and  mastered  all  the  Foreign 
State-Papers  in  our  Record  Office  (unhappy  Turn- 
bull  !)  and  all  the  Relations  of  the  Venetian  Am- 
bassadors lately  disentombed  by  "M..  Armand 
Baschet  from  the  Convent  of  the  Frari.  Further- 
more, he  should  be  an  artist,  practised  in  the  va- 
rious styles  of  Turner  and  Calcott,  of  Stanfield 
and  Holland.  In  addition,  he  should  be  a  pol- 
ished, patient,  appreciative,  and  observant  travel- 
ler ;  a  Rogers,  a  Lear,  a  Eustace,  a  Kingl-ake,  a 
Canon  "Wordsworth.  Finally,  he  should  bring  to 
his  Italian  journey ings  the  mordant  humor  of 
Heinrich  Heine,  the  metaphysical  sentiment  of 
George  Sand,  the  voluptuous  word-painting  of 
Byron,  the  minute  pencilling  of  the  President  de 
Brosses.  Finally,  he  should  be  a  gentleman. 
Armed  cap-a-pie  with  all  these  qualities,  and 
with  plenty  of  money,  time,  industry,  and  health, 
and  sufficient  reticence  to  burn  his  MS.,  sheet  by 
sheet,  if  it  proved  faulty,  he  might  in  the  end  pro- 
duce, I  think,  such  a  work  as  would  infinitely 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  259 

delight  this   generation,  and  one  that  posterity 
would  not  willingly  let  die. 

I  don't  think  it  militates  in  the  slightest  degree 
against  the  value  of  my  ideal  book  to  be  told 
that  Shakespeare  never  was  in  Italy.  He  had 
been  everywhere,  as  he  was  everything,  in  the 
spirit.  The  people  who  cudgel  their  brains  as  to 
his  medical  knowledge  and  his  legal  knowledge — 
as  to  whether  he  was  ever  a  scrivener  or  an  apo- 
thecary, a  soldier  or  a  sailor,  a  butcher  or  a 
horse-couper — are,  to  my  mind,  donkeys,  and 
nothing  more.  He  was  a  clairvoyant.  His 
Elsinore  is  in  the  very  Denmark  ;  his  Dunsinane 
in  Scotland ;  his  forests  near  Athens ;  his  Cliff 
in  Kent ;  his  Belmont  in  Yenetia  (I  have  seen 
Portia's  house  ;  it  is  on  the  Banks  of  the  Brenta, 
and  is  now  inhabited  by  an  enriched  prima 
donna)',  his  "  park  and  palace  in  Navarre "  in 
the  Basque  country  ;  not  necessarily  because  he 
ever  actually  or  corporeally  journeyed  to  thos,e 
places,  but  because  the  Almighty  had  gifted  him 
with  the  power  of  seeing  things  in  his  soul,  and 
of  describing  them  in  matchless  music.  And  in 
the  main,  though  all  his  absolute  peregrina- 
tions may  have  extended  no  further  than  between 
London  and  Stratford,  and  the  suburbs  of  tho 
metropolis,  he  is  a  more  trustworthy  traveller 
than  Mandeville  or  Purchas,  Hackluyt  or  Marco 
Polo. 


260  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  ;    OK, 

In  the  whole  Shakesperiaii  catalogue  there  is 
no  play  more  thoroughly  Italian  than  "  Romeo 
and  Juliet."  Enthusiasm  for  the  mighty  master 
may  be  the  parent  of  such  an  opinion,  you  may 
surmise ;  but  just  take  a  through  ticket  by  the 
Yictor  Emmanuel  Railway,  and  leave  the  train 
at  the  Porta  Nuova,  Verona,  and  trot  on  the 
next  day  to  Mantua,  and  you  will  come  to  be  of 
my  mind.  Gorgeous  as  are  Mr.  John  Gilbert's 
illustrations  to  the  Routledge  edition,  his  superb 
designs,  when  he  touches  the  Italian  dramas, 
seem  to  me  meagre  and  shrivelled.  It  is  in  the 
text  that  you  must  look  for  the  genuine  local 
coloring,  the  choice  Italian.  There  you  will  feel 
the  real  Italian  sunshine,  the  balmy  nights,  the 
bath  of  moonlight,  the  lounging,  lazy  lives  of  the 
men  and  women,  the  saunterings  and  sighings 
and  whisperings,  chequered  every  now  and  then 
•by  fierce  outbreaks  of  passion — by  the  sharp 
scream,  the  torrent  of  passionate  invective,  the 
quick  curse,  the  sudden  stab.  Upon  my  word, 
not  six  weeks  since  at  Verona  I  saw  Sampson 
biting  his  thumb  at  Abra?n}  and  Gregory  back- 
ing him  up  ;  and  then  there  was  a  rixe,  and  the 
Capnlet  women  rushed  out  of  their  houses  and 
slapped  the  Montague  children  violently;  and 
Benvolio  strove  in  vain  to  quell  the  turmoil,  and 
old  Capulet  in  his  gown  (he  carried  on  the  pro- 
fession of  a  money-changer,  and  had  been  dis- 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  261 

turbed  from  his  siesta)  came  shuffling  out  of  his 
shop,  with  Lady  Capulet,  in  a  clingy  bed-gown, 
clinging  to  him  :  and  then  the  venerable  Jlon- 
tague  (who  had  subsided  into  the  peaceful  pursuit 
of  vending  saffron-tinted  sausages)  issued  from  his 
back  parlor,  accompanied  by  his  lady,  and  gave 
Capulet  a  piece  of  his  mind;  and  then  the  women 
scolded,  and  the  men  stormed,  and  the  dogs 
barked,  and  everybody  bit  his  or  her  thumb,  or 
snapped  their  fingers  at  everybody  else ;  and 
people  who  had  seemingly  nothing  on  earth  to 
do  with  the  fray,  flung  open  third-floor  case- 
ments, and  joined  with  shrill  verbiage  in  it ;  and 
there  was,  on  the  whole,  a  devil  of  a  commotion. 
It  did  not  concern  me  ;  but  I  felt  so  excited,  that 
had  I  had  a  weapon  on  my  thigh,  I  am  afraid  I 
should  have  drawn,  and  had  a  lunge  at  some- 
body. As  it  was,  I  found  myself  in  fierce  parley 
with  an  old  woman  who  sold  lemonade  under  an 
archway ;  and  where  it  would  have  ended  I  know 
not,  had  not,  in  the  nick  of  time,  Prince  Escalus 
(represented  for  the  nonce  by  an  Austrian  cor- 
poral's guard  with  fixed  bayonets)  come  up,  and 
abused  the  combatants  all  round  in  Teutonic 
Italian.  Some  one — I  believe  Gregory — was 
marched  off  to»the  guard-house  \  and  I  made  my 
peace  with  the  old  lady  who  sold  lemonade ;  and 
Capulet  went  back  to  his  siesta,  and  Montague  to 
his  sausages.     But  until  I  left  Yerona  by  the 


262  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  J    ORj 

Porta  Yescova,  I  was  in  a  perpetual  day-dream 
about  "  Romeo  and  Juliet."  Wherever  the  road 
bifurcated,  I  exj^ected  to  meet  the  fiery  Tybalt, 
his  sword  drawn,  raging  up  one  thoroughfare,  in 
search  of  the  pacific  Benvolis  (an  Italian  quaker 
he)  who  was  quietly  trotting  down  another. 
What  a  man  of  men  he  was,  that  Tybalt ! 
Shakespeare  knew  well  enough  that  he  would  be 
possible  nowhere  but  in  Italy ;  so  he  put  him  in 
Yerona.  The  heat  of  the  climate  made  him  mad. 
His  sword  turned  red-hot  in  its  scabbard,  and 
burnt  through  the  leather,  and  scorched  his 
thigh.     Then  he  went  at  it,  hammer  and  tongs  : 

"  Non  schirar,  non  parar,  non  ritirarsi 
Yoglion  costor,  ne  qui  destrezza  ha  parte  ; 
Non  danno  i  colpi,  or  finti,  or  pieni,  or  scarsi ; 
Toglie  F  ira  e  '1  furor  1'  uso  dell'  arte. 
Odi  le  spade  orribilmente  urtarsi 
A  mezzo  il  ferro  !     II  pie  d'  orma  non  parte  : 
Sempre  e  il  pie  fermo,  e  la  man  sempre  in  moto  ; 
Ne  scende  taglio  in  van,  ne  punto  a  voto."  * 

Here  is  the  real  Tybalt  for  you,  when  he  has 
gotten  an  antagonist  worthy  of  his  blood-lustful 

•  "  They  wish  neither  to  avoid  the  combat,  to  parry  the 
blows,  nor  to  fly.  Skill  hath  no  part  in  the  conflict ;  their 
thrusts  are  no  make-believes  :  now  straightforward,  now  oblique. 
Rage  and  hatred  rob  them  of  the  resources  of  art.  Here  the 
horrible  shock  of  their  swords  clashing  together !  Their  feet 
are  firm  and  motionless ;  their  hands  always  on  the  move. 
Not  a  blow  is  given  in  vain  ;  not  a  thrust  is  lost." 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  263 

steel.  He  is  a  good  swordsman  ;  but  in  his  craze 
for  killing,  he  despises  carte  and  tierce  and  reason 
demonstrative.  Here  is  Tybalt  foaming  at  the 
month,  blind  with  fury,  hacking,  hewing,  slash- 
ing, stabbing  away.  Surely  Shakespeare  must 
have  read  these  burning  lines  of  the  old  Italian 
poet,  and  conjured  up  the  fiery  Tybalt  from  the 
ringing  rhyme.  That  "  Odi  le  spade  orribilmente 
urtarsi  a  mezzo  il  ferro  /"  was  amply  sufficient 
for  the  clairvoyant.  And  indeed  I  am,  in  this 
surmise,  not  winnowing  the  wind ;  for  there  is 
every  likelihood  that  William  Shakespeare  did 
read  the  lines  I  have  transcribed.  They  are 
quoted  by  Montaigne,  and  Montaigne's  Essays 
were,  we  know,  from  an  undoubted  autograph, 
among  the  favorite  reading  of  our  poet. 

I  never  heard  a  burst  of  laughter  from  a  cafe 
that  afternoon  in  Verona  without  peeping  in  to 
see  the  gallant  Mercutio  swinging  his  legs  on  a 
marble  table,  and  bantering  the  love-lorn  Romeo 
sighing  over  his  sugar-and-water.  I  went  to  see 
the  so-called  tomb  of  the  ill-starred  lovers  ;  but 
that  apocryphal  monument  did  not  help  my 
illusion.  The  streets  were  enough  for  me.  What 
does  it  matter,  I  asked  myself,  whence  the  master 
obtained  his  plot,  or  who  the  lovers  really  were ; 
whether,  as  Mr.  Douce  essayed  to  prove,  the 
original  tale  comes  from  a  Greek  author,  one 
Xenophon    Ephesius;    or    whether    the    events 


264:  BREAKFAST  IN  BED  ;   OR, 

recorded  took  place,  not  at  Verona,  bat  at 
Sienna,  Homeo  being  "a  young  man  of  good 
family,  named  Mariotti  Mignaletti,"  and  Juliet 
a  certain  Donna  Gianozza  ?  All  these  are  trifles. 
Whether  the  romance  was  of  Luigi  da  Porto's 
making,  or  of  Bandello's,  or  of  Boisteau's,  thence 
translated  by  Arthur  Brooke,  frets  me  little.  It 
is  enough  that  Shakespeare,  from  a  lovely  legend, 
was  permitted  to  make  an  immortal  drama :  that 
he  has  laid  the  scene  in  Italy ;  and  that  the  play 
is  Italian  to  the  very  core. 

In  what  part  of  the  continent  if  you  please, 
save  Italy,  would  that  garden-scene  have  been 
feasible  ?  Italy  is  the  country  where,  after  the 
scorching  day,  comes  a  cool  but  temperate  night. 
Italy  is  the  land  where  young  people  sit  up  all 
night  to  make  love,  and  where,  too,  they  do 
tumble  into  love  with  one  another  at  first  sight. 
In  decorous  England,  Juliet's  sudden  passion  for 
Borneo  might  have  been  considered  improper. 
In  Italy,  nothing  could  be  more  natural.  It  is 
where  the  sun  is  so  warm  that  the  corn  ripens  so 
quickly.  And  the  impromptu  masquerade ;  and 
the  pretty  fib  told  by  Juliet  that  she  was  going 
out  to  confession,  when  she  is  bent  on  being  mar- 
ried !  In  England,  a  young  lady  would  have 
told  her  mamma  that  she  was  going  to  Mudie's 
or  to  Kegent  Street  to  purchase  two  yards  and  a 
half  of  maize-colored  ribbon.     And  then  the 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  265 

changes  of  scene,  the  frequent  dialogues  that  take 
place  "  in  a  street,"  "  another  street,"  "  a  public 
place!"  Italy  is  the  country  above  all  others 
where  people  meet  in  streets  and  public  places  to 
talk  together  by  the  hour,  to  chat,  to  gossip,  to 
flirt,  and  to  quarrel ;  for  those  streets  and  places, 
you  see,  are  lined  with  cool  and  shady  arcades, 
along  whose  pavements  you  can  saunter,  against 
whose  pillars  you  can  lean,  free  from  dust,  or 
heat,  or  jostling  crowds. 

But  farewell,  fair  Yerona,  and  Heaven  deliver 
thee  speedily  from  the  Austrian  corporal's  guard 
and  the  dominion  of  the  double-headed  eagle 
generally !  I  must  not  forget  that  I  am  in 
Oxford  Street,  and  in  the  stalls  of  an  English 
playhouse,  and  that  my  business  to-night  is 
only,  by  implication,  with  "  the  footsteps  in  Italy 
of  William  Shakespeare,"  but  more  directly  with 
Mademoiselle  Stella  Colas,  from  the  Imperial 
French  Theatre  at  St.  Petersburg,  who  under- 
takes the  part  of  Juliet^  and,  thorough  French- 
woman as  she  is,  plays  it  in  English. 

The  pretty  creature !  Mademoiselle  S telle  Colas 
is  by  this  time  gone  back  to  St.  Petersburg,  and 
the  praise  or  blame  I  am  presumptuous  enough 
to  mete  out  to  her  will  probably  never  reach  her 
ears,  unless  indeed  the  editor  of  the  "  Nevsky 
Magazine"  chooses  to  transfer  this  article  (to 
which  he  Is  very  welcome)  to  the  next  number 

12 


266  ESEAKFAST  £S   BED ;   OK, 

of  his  publication.  Nor,  perhaps,  were  this 
u  Breakfast  in  Bed  "  brought  under  the  notice 
of  the  charming  Stella,  would  she  be  much  the 
wiser  for  it ;  for  I  have  heard  spiteful  people  on 
this  side  of  the  water  hint  that  her  acquaintance 
with  the  English  vernacular  was  of  the  most 
limited  nature,  and  that  she  mastered  the 
speeches  set  down  for  Capulefs  hapless  daughter 
mainly  in  the  poll-parrot  fashion.  JTis  no  dis- 
grace for  a  French  tragedienne  to  have  done  so. 
Have  we  not  all  been  told  that  the  illustrious 
Rachel  herself  was  not  gifted  with  the  faculty 
of  understanding  much  of  the  purport  of  the 
lines  she  spoke,  all  native  as  the  language  was 
to  her;  that,  word  by  word,  and  syllable  by 
syllable,  the  couplets  had  to  be  laboriously 
drummed- into  her,  until  she  was  in  a  position  to 
debiier  la  tirade,  to  roll  forth  her  lava  stream  of 
declamation ;  and  that  those  wonderful  move- 
ments and  bits  of  by-play — few  in  number,  cer- 
tainly, and  somewhat  monotonous — which  used 
to  excite  our  amazement  and  admiration  were  ail 
taught  her,  in  the  purest  mechanical  manner,  by 
her  instructor,  Monsieur  Sanson?  Rachel  did 
not  care  much  as  to  what  author  she  recited 
from;  Racine,  Corneille,  Moliere,  Ducis,  or 
Legouve,  were  all  the  same  to  her.  She  had 
something  in  her — wonderful,  Heaven-given 
genius;  but  it  lay  deep,  dormant;  it  wanted 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE    SHEETS.  267 

smelting  ;  the  gold  needed  to  be  separated  from 
the  ore ;  and  it  was  for  Monsieur  Sanson  to 
rise  the  divining  rod  and  the  digger's  cradle. 
The  English  actor — perhaps  Mr.  John  Ryder  ? — 
"whose  pleasant  task  it  was  to  "  coach "  Stella 
Colas  had  not,  perhaps,  so  difficult  a  labor.  This 
fascinating  young  woman  was  evidently  highly 
appreciative  amd  imaginative,  and  probably 
seized  the  scope  and  meaning  of  Juliet's  charac- 
ter long  ere  she  understood  the  half  of  Shake- 
speare's words.  I  question  whether,  after  all, 
she  had  anything  beyond  a  vaguely  general  com- 
prehension of  them. 

The    pretty    creature !    I    say    again.      Was 
there    ever    such   a    darling   Juliet  f     Lest    I 

CD 

should  be  accused  of  impertinent  personality 
in  thus  publicly  expressing  my  admiration  for 
a  pretty  girl,  let  it  be  understood  that  my  com- 
pliments arc  addressed  not  to  her,  but  to  the 
series  of  cartes  de  visile  published  towards  the 
close  of  her  engagement.  Her  photographs 
were  well-nigh  as  pretty  as  herself.  Such 
childish  innocence ;  such  langorous  love  of 
the  handsome  Montague  with  the  green-silk 
legs ;  such  winning  fondness  for  the  nurse  who 
scolded  but  idolized  her ;  such  affectionate  reve- 
rence for  her  harsh  papa  and  mamma ;  such 
trust  and  confidence  in  Friar  Lawrence; 
such   sweet   and  simple   womanly   daintinesses 


268  BREAKFAST   IN   BED  J    OR, 

were  probably  never  developed  by  the  camera 
before. 

And  here  let  me  be  permitted  a  slight  digres- 
sion. To  ns  English  people  of  the  nineteeth 
century,  the  behavior  of  Capulet  and  his  wife 
to  their  daughter,  can  scarcely  fail  to  appear 
barbarous  and  unnatural.  We  have  match-mak- 
ing mammas  in  our  midst,  no  doubt,  who  lead 
their  daughters  a  terrible  life  on  vexed  questions 
of  matrimonial  alliance ;  and  ill-natured  papas, 
who  threaten  to  cut  their  girls  off  with  a  shilling 
if  they  don't  immediately  discard  the  penniless 
captain  for  the  rich  cotton  spinner.  But  the 
Cajpulets  in  modern  life  are,  I  hope,  extinct ;  or, 
if  they  are  to  be  found  lurking  in  odd  nooks  and 
corners,  they  must  be  set  down  as  monstrosities. 
Take  yourself  back  to  medieval  Italy,  however, 
and  JuliePs  papa  and  mamma  become  the  most, 
natural  people  in  the  world.  The  old  Italian 
novels  and  chronicles  are  full  of  Lord  and  Lady 
Cajpulets.  If  we  glance  at  a  recent,  to  say  little 
of  the  present,  state  of  French  society,  we  shall 
find  parental  harshness  carried  to  an  extent 
scarcely  less  hideous.  Do  you  remember  Gin- 
evr&i  the  heroine  of  Honore  de  Balzac's  most 
pathetic  romance?  Ginevra  is  only  Juliet. 
Her  vindictive  Corsican  parents  are  only  Gapu- 
lets  ;  the  man  she  persists  in  marrying  is  simply 
a  Montague.     "  Marry  the  'County  Paris,  or  get 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN  THE   SHEETS.  269 

"  Many  the  County 
Parts,  or  be  turned  out  of  doors."  "  Do  as  you 
are  bidden,  or  be  locked  up  in  the  coal-cellar  on 
bread-and- water."  "  Choose  your  bridal  dress, 
or  never  see  your  papa  and  mamma's  faco 
again."  These  were  the  agreeable  refrains  of 
the  family  ditty. 

I  am  afraid  that,  if  we  turned  away  from  Italy 
and  directed  our  glance  towards  England,  we 
should  find  enough  of  parental  cruelty  and  to 
spare,  not  only  in  Shakespeare's  time,  but  for  a 
hundred  and  fifty  years  afterwards.  In  one  of 
Gibber's  comedies,  a  young  married  lady,  say 
Berintliia,  asks  another  youthful  matron,  say 
Clarissa  (who  detests  her  husband),  why  she  did 
not  marry  the  man  of  her  choice.  "  My  mother 
would  have  whipped  me,"  answers  Clarissa  sim- 
ply. And  Materfamilias  would  have  whipped 
her,  too,  soundly.  The  story  of  Dr.  Johnson 
and  the  young  ladies  in  Lincolnshire  might  be 
quoted  in  confirmation  ;  likewise  old  Aubrey's 
garrulous  account  of  things  as  they  were  in  his 
youth  (close  upon  Shakespeare's  time),  when 
mothers  corrected  their  daughters  with  their 
fans — the  handle  at  least  half  a  yard  long — and 
"  in  the  days  of  their  besom  discipline  used  to 
slash  their  daughters  when  they  were  perfect 
women."  In  the  great  case  of  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Croftoa,  a  Puritan  divine,  who  was  prosecuted 


270 


OR, 


for  barbarously  beating  his  servant-girl,  he  was 
asked  why  he  had  not  used  a  wand  or  cane  for 
the  purpose  of  chastisement;  whereupon  his 
reverence  replied  that  "  his  mother,  once  beating 
her  maid  with  a  wand,  did  chance  to  strike  out 
her  eye,  which  caused  him  thenceforth  to  mislike 
such  usage."  A  pretty  state  of  things  ;  but  our 
great-great-grandmothers  were  nevertheless,  sub- 
ject to  it.  Hear  Aubrey  again:  "The  gentry 
and  citizens  had  little  learning  of  any  kind,  and 
their  way  of  breeding  up  their  children  was  suit- 
able to  the  rest.  They  were  as  severe  to  their 
children  as  their  schoolmasters,  and  their  school- 
masters as  masters  of  the  House  of  Correction. 
The  child  perfectly  loathed  the  sight  of  his 
parents,  as  the  slave  his  torture.  Gentlemen  of 
thirty  and  forty  years  old  were  to  stand  like 
mutes  and  fools  bareheaded  before  their 
parents;  and  the  daughters  (grown  women), 
were  to  stand  at  the  cupboard-side  during 
the  whole  time  of  the  proud  mother's  visit, 
unless  (as  the  fashion  was)  leave  was  desired, 
forsooth,  that  a  cushion  should  be  given  them 
to  kneel  upon,  brought  by  the  serving-man, 
after  they  had  done  sufficient  penance  in 
standing."  Ah,  the  grand  old  days  of  author- 
ity and  discipline !  There  is  a  "  court  cup- 
board"  mentioned  in  "Romeo  and  Juliet,'* 
and  it  was  doubtless  hj  this  "  cupboard-side " 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS  271 

that  poor  Juliet  stood  when  it  pleased  her  "  proud 
mother"  to  visit  her. 

"With  this  you  may  compare  Lady  Jane  Grey's 
account  of  her  early  tribulations,  and  her  nip- 
pings  and  pinchings  in  the  Suffolk  family  ;  but 
to  my  mind  the  clearest  gloss  on  the  GapuUts? 
usage  of  their  daughter  is  to  be  found  in  the 
undeniably  old  ballad  of  "  Willikins  and  his 
Dinah,"  revived  in  our  time  with  such  brilliant 
success  as  a  comic  song  by  Mr.  Robson : 

"As  Dinah  was  a  walkin'  in  the  garden  one  day, 
She  met  with  her  father,  who  to  her  did  say, 

*  Right  tooral,  right  tooral,'  etc. 

*  Go!  Dinah,  go  dress  yourself  in  gorgeous  array, 
For  I've  met  with  a  young  man  so  pleasant  and  gay  ; 
I've  met  with  a  young  man  of  ten  thousand  a  year, 
And  he  says  that  he'll  make  you  his  love  and  his  dear. 
'  Right  tooral,  right  tooral,'  "  etc. 

You  know  how  Dinah  pleads  her  youth,  and 
that  "  to  marry  that  moment  she's  not  much  in- 
clined ;"  and  how  her  "  stern  parient  "  flies  into 
a  passion,  and  threatens  to  leave  his  large  fortune 
to  the  nearest  of  kin ;  whereupon  Dinah  commits 
suicide,  and  Willikms  felo  de  se.  You  may  object 
that  all  this  is  but  an  after  parody  of  Shakes- 
peare's tragedy,  4i  cup  of  cold  pison  "  included  ; 
but  I  hold  the  "  London  Liquor  Merchant,"  from 
which  Mr.  Robson's  comic  ditty  was  derived,  to 
be  at  least  as  old  as  "  Barbara  Allen  "  and  the 


272  BREAKFAST   IN   BED:    OB, 

"Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington,"  and  if  not 
contemporary  with,  anterior  to,  Shakespeare's 
age.  Both  the  ballad  and  the  play  are  indig- 
nant protests  against  paternal  harshness;  and 
there  may  be  some  truth  in  the  tradition  that 
Shakespeare  was  incited  by  Lords  Essex  and 
Southampton  to  bend  his  wonderful  genius  to 
the  embodiment  of  such  a  protest  on  the  stage ; 
to  call  down  public  indignation  on  a  Draconic 
domestic  code  imported  from  abroad,  and  which, 
if  we  are  to  believe  the  memoirs  of  Silvio  Pellico, 
existed  in  Italian  households  so  late  as  the  begin- 
ning of  the  present  century. 

And  I  have  kept  poor  dear  Steila  Colas  wait- 
ing all  this  time !  Well,  with  fifteen  hundred 
admirers,  at  the  very  least,  watching  her  every 
movement,  and  applauding  her  to  the  very  echo, 
she  con  well  afford  to  spare  my  oblique  gaze. 
Did  I  like  the  French  Juliet  f  Did  I  prefer  her 
to  Fanny  Kemble,  to  Ellen  Tree,  Helen  Faucit  ? 
Well,  she  was  very,  very  pretty.  She  dressed  in 
excellent  taste.  She  had  one  of  the  most  sensi- 
ble, polished,  and  gentlemanlike  Bomeos  I  ever 
desired  to  see — Mr.  Walter  Montgomery — who, 
on  his  part,  had  a  wonderful  Apothecary  in  Mr. 
Beimore.  She  had  an  admirable  Friar  Law- 
rence in  Mr.  Henry  Marston,  one  of  "the  best 
actors  on  the  English  stage.  And* what  else? 
Well,  if  the  truth  must  out.  I  should  have  liked 


PHILOSOPHY   BETWEEN   THE   SHEETS.  273 

to  witness  Mademoiselle  Stella  Colas'  imperson- 
ation of  Juliet  with  a  ball  of  cotton  securely 
stuffed  iuto  each  of  my  ears.  Her  pantomime 
was  marvellous.  She  was  full  of  grace,  agility, 
intelligence,  fascination ;  but  I  do  not  like  to 
hear  the  words  of  Shakespeare  murdered ;  and 
that  she  did  so  murder  them — murdering  even 
while  she  smiled — is  a  certainty.  In  this  I  may 
be  hypercritical.  Foreign  tragedians,  male  and 
female,  on  the  English  boards  have  become  the 
fashion.  *\Ye  have  had  a  Hiffh-Dutch  Hamlet. 
We  have  now  had  a  French  Juliet.  I  live  in  hopes 
of  seeing  a  Spanish  Ophelia,  and  a  Cochin-Chi- 
nese Lady  Macbeth. 

Of  Mademoiselle  Stella  Colas'  astounding  in- 
tensity  of  passionate  grief,  the  critics  have  dis- 
coursed until  they  have  become  well-nigh  as 
hoarse  as  the  pretty  French  actress  at  the  end  of 
her  screeds  of  woe.  Said  a  very  clever  and  a 
very  witty  lady,  who  sat  by  my  side  in  the  stalls, 
to  me, 

u  Of  what  does  that  last  agony  of  anguish  re- 
mind you?" 

"  Of  Niobe,  of  Rachel,  of  Sappho,  of  the  Py- 
thoness, of  Madge  Wildfire,"  I  answered,  heed- 
lessly. 

"  ISot  at  all,"  pursued  my  interlocutor.  "  Vous 
rfy  etes  pas  1  Does  not  that  appalling  lament 
remind  you,  somehow,  of  a  cat  upon  the  tiles  ?" 


274  BREAKFAST   EST    BED  ;    OR, 

Tlie  lady  was  not  an  Englishwoman  ;  and 
abroad,  as  yon  may  know,  it  is  the  custom  to 
call  things  by  their  names. 

But  she  was  a  pretty  creature.  Oh  !  she  was 
fair.  I  hope  she  filled  Mr.  George  Vining's 
treasury  to  overflowing.  I  hope  she  will  marry 
a  Russian  Grand-Duke  at  the  very  least ;  and 
when  next  Mr.  Walter  Montgomery  plays  Romeo, 
I  trust  he  will  be  enabled  to  find  another  Juliet 
as  comely  and  as  graceful  as  Stella  Colas.  But 
I  very  much  doubt  it. 

Lo !  I  hear  the  clatter  of  the  crockery-ware  on 
the  stairs ;  and,  for  the  last  time,  Crazy  Jane 
brings  me  up  my  "  Breakfast  in  Bed."  For 
twelve  months  I  have  partaken  of  my  morning 
meal  on  my  back,  and  feebly  philosophized  be- 
tween the  sheets.  But  the  year  is  out.  I  have 
grown  to  acknowledge  that  my  lie-a-bed  habits 
are  highly  deleterious,  not  to  say  immoral ;  and 
for  the  future,  I  am  sternly  resolved  to  rise  at 
seven  o'clock,  and  have  my  tea  and  toast  in  a 
decent  breakfast-parlor  punctually  at  eight. 
Good-bye,  ladies  and  gentlemen ;  may  your 
shadows  and  digestions  never  be  less.  Good- 
bye, Hircius  and  Spungius,  engaging  "  Compan- 
ions of  my  Solitude,"  inexhaustible  themes  for 
"  Essays  written  in  the  intervals  of  Business." 
Farewell,  my  best  beloved  ;  we  may  meet  again, 


PHILOSOPHY  BET  W  JOT  THE    SHEETS.  275 

shortly.  I  take  my  leave  with  feelings  of  affec- 
tion towards  all  the  world — feelings  that  o'er- 
brim  my  eyes  and  swell  my  bosom.  What  are 
riches,  honors,  dignities?  Give  me  1IEAET! 
Bless  everybody ! 


ftnri? 


THE     END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.00  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


FEB  13  1935 


MAB  I"935 


s" 


MC 


ay 


/ 


